The White Mercedes

by Philip Pullman

  ‘Hello, Oxford Entertainment Systems…’

  ‘Chris. Wotcher. Barry here. Listen, is Dave around?’

  ‘No, they’re both out at Marston, that pub job.’

  ‘Oh, right. Look, can you ask Dave when he gets back to pop round to Lasky’s and get a five-litre can of silk emulsion paint. I think there’s one called Buttercup White or summing.’

  ‘Buttercups are yellow.’

  ‘Yeah, you know what I mean. White with a hint of yellow. And a couple of brushes. Got that?’

  ‘Five-litre can, two brushes—’

  ‘And bring ’em along to the shop. Tell him to sign for ’em.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Oh, and listen…Anyone there?’

  Chris caught the conspiratorial tone, and found himself looking around, though he knew he was alone.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Just me.’

  ‘Look, you know that business I told you about? The Irish business?’

  ‘Yeah, I remember…’

  ‘Well, I’ve had a tip-off. It’s coming to a head. Carson’s found out I’m in Oxford, but he don’t know where just yet. Any time now I’m going to send Sue and Sean back to her mum’s and then I’ll go to ground. I’m relying on you, Chris. There’s no one else knows about the chalet…’

  Not much, thought Chris bitterly.

  ‘Yeah, well,’ he said.

  ‘We’ll fix up some kind of system. Messages, you know. CB radio, maybe. Just till I sort Carson out. I had this beautiful idea—look, I gotta go. Don’t forget that paint. And listen, Chris, when this is all over, I got brilliant plans. The way you done that joinery in the chalet, beautiful, smashing—it give me an idea, right, for scenery—look, I’ll tell you later. Watch out, OK? Keep your eyes peeled.’

  ‘I will, yeah.’

  ‘Lovely job,’ said Barry, and rang off.

  Chris put the phone back slowly. He’d done it again: he’d run away from asking him about Jenny. True, Barry had hardly given him a chance, but you had to make chances, not wait for them.

  Next time, he thought.

  —

  The white Mercedes was parked in the only patch of shade in the car park. Fletcher waved to Chris through the open window.

  ‘Glad you could make it,’ he said, switching off the radio news. ‘Have a seat.’

  Chris sat in the front passenger seat, leaving the door open beside him. Fletcher was eating a Marks and Spencer sandwich and drinking from a small bottle of mineral water. He offered another unopened one to Chris, who took it.

  ‘You’re probably wondering,’ said Fletcher, ‘if I’m a policeman, why this isn’t a police car, why I’m not in uniform, why this whole thing is so unorthodox. Well, having thought about it carefully, I’m going to tell you. You might have guessed, actually. Have you heard of the Special Branch?’

  ‘That’s politics, isn’t it?’ said Chris.

  ‘Security in general. Particularly as regards terrorism.’

  Chris tried to work out what all this meant for him. He didn’t trust the police, didn’t feel that they were on his side, and as for whether it was normal for an officer from the shadowy Special Branch to go about his duties like this, he had no idea. He wondered if he ought to ask for proof: didn’t they have to carry some kind of identification? But Chris wouldn’t have known what that looked like anyway, far less be able to tell whether it was forged. He had to go on feelings. Did he trust this man or not?

  He turned to look into Fletcher’s eyes. The man was watching him patiently. How difficult it was to read appearances! They weren’t like words; you couldn’t say that grey eyes meant honesty, or thin lips meant meanness, or glasses meant respectability. Fletcher’s face looked back at Chris’s, and Chris understood nothing at all. It was as if the man were wearing some incredibly detailed, immaculately finished mask.

  The mask smiled. Chris turned away and unwrapped the ham roll he’d made for his lunch.

  ‘You said something about Ireland,’ Fletcher said. ‘Barry Miller had told you something about Ireland. Was that it?’

  ‘I’m trying to remember,’ Chris said. This was one of the most difficult positions he’d ever been in. Had Barry done something wrong? And if he had, was it right to tell Fletcher about it? It might be Chris’s own anger about Jenny that made him do it, and not his knowledge of what was right. On the other hand, Fletcher might not be going to arrest Barry but to seek his help. What the hell should he do?

  Fletcher must have sensed his doubts. He drummed his fingers lightly on the steering wheel, as if he’d made a decision.

  ‘Look, Chris, you know Barry Miller, he’s .your boss, he might be your friend. You’re worried about talking to me because it might mean betraying him in some way. Am I right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, I understand that completely. It does you credit. Does him credit, actually, too. Can you just agree to answer the questions I put to you? Only the ones you feel happy about. Any question you don’t want to answer, that’s fine by me. And in return you can ask me what you like and I’ll give you an honest answer. If there’s anything I can’t tell you because of security, the Official Secrets Act, I’ll make that clear. How’s that?’

  ‘Yeah. OK. That’s fair.’

  ‘Good. D’you know where he lives?’

  Chris hesitated. ‘Yes, in Kidlington.’

  ‘D’you know the address?’

  ‘I’ve been there, but I can’t remember it.’

  ‘OK. Now, this business about Ireland. Can you remember what he told you?’

  ‘Can you tell me what his real name is?’ said Chris.

  ‘Well, Miller is his real name, because he changed it by deed poll. But before that he was called Springer.’

  Chris felt a strange sensation, as if a corner of his mental landscape had settled in a rock-fall, altering the shape of things in a small but significant way. It meant that Fletcher was telling the truth.

  ‘Yeah, that’s what he told me,’ he said. ‘About Ireland…He said he’d been attached to the Army there, in Belfast. He wasn’t very clear about it. He sort of hinted at the SAS, I thought. Underground work, that sort of thing. He’d helped to break up this paramilitary gang, and one of the family was still after him, a man called Carson…Protestants. That’s one of the things I didn’t understand. I thought the British Army and the Protestants were sort of on the same side…’

  ‘No. It’s not as simple as that.’

  ‘Well, no. I half realised that. Anyway the point is that this man Carson is still after him, that’s why he changed his name.’

  ‘Ah. He didn’t say anything else about Ireland in particular?’

  ‘No. Just a lot of hints. Why? What was he doing there?’

  Fletcher scratched his head. ‘I’m afraid he’s told you a pack of lies,’ he said. ‘For a start he was nothing to do with the Army, let alone the SAS. In the second place he was on the other side altogether.’

  ‘What, the IRA? Barry?’

  ‘Well, this is where we start touching what’s classified. I don’t know if you’ve heard of an organisation called the INLA? The Irish National Liberation Army?’

  ‘Yeah, I’ve heard of it. They’re sort of a more extreme IRA.’

  ‘That’s it.’

  ‘And you’re saying Barry was a member?’

  ‘I’m not saying it…’

  Chris sat silent for a few seconds.

  ‘Why are you telling me this?’ he said. ‘Are you going to arrest him or something? I just can’t see what you’re after. He’s not hard to find, I mean, Christ, he’s in the shop now if you want to arrest him…But I can’t believe it. Barry Miller? He’s not like that. It’s crazy. Surely…’

  Fletcher nodded slowly. He looked tired, wise, understanding.

  ‘That’s how they’ve managed to succeed,’ he said. ‘By building on the trust of people who don’t know the truth about them. I don’t blame you for being taken in. He’s a past master. But you think, n
ow. Has he always told you the truth? Do you know for a fact that he’s a hundred per cent reliable? Isn’t there some doubt in your mind about him?’

  Chris said nothing. He looked down at the carpeted floor.

  ‘I’ve met his wife and his son,’ he said, a little desperately. ‘They’re good people. Barry’s a good man sometimes. If you saw him at home…’

  ‘It’s hard to understand,’ Fletcher said gently, ‘but there are some people who can live two separate lives. I’ve never seen his family, but I’m sure you’re right about them. And I’d be prepared to bet that they know as little as you do about the other part of his life. His wife might wonder occasionally, but he’ll tell her a pack of lies. Or else she won’t ask, she’ll keep her worries to herself…’

  He drank from the bottle of mineral water. Another little rock-fall happened in Chris’s mind; because almost the first thing he’d noticed about Sue, after thinking how nice she was, was the faint air of shadowed anxiety that never quite went away. It was exactly as Fletcher was describing.

  Fletcher put the bottle down, screwing the cap on tightly.

  ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I’m going to trust you. I suppose really I should make you sign the Official Secrets Act or something, but you’re an intelligent young man. Barry Springer, or Miller, or Daly—yes, he’s called Daly too, Michael Daly—is, or was, a supergrass. He was an INLA member for some time, and then he turned informer. Gave Special Branch a lot of information about his former associates. He was an expert on explosives. They used to use car bombs in those days. Nowadays, with Semtex—you’ve heard of Semtex?—which is much more powerful, you don’t need such a large amount to make a lethal blast, but those explosives they used to make out of fertiliser, well, a thousand-pound bomb was nothing unusual. That’s as much as five heavy adults. Can’t leave that in a carrier bag, hence the car bomb, you see. Your man Miller, though, he was a wizard with explosives and electronics. He could conjure an explosion out of a bag of sugar…’

  Chris’s head was ringing. He’d remembered Barry’s words at the ball on the night he’d met Jenny: You don’t need much powder for a socking great bang…Hardly knowing what he was doing, he got out of the open door and walked up and down beside the car, holding his fists to his head. No, it was too much, it was impossible, Fletcher was fooling him.

  He stopped and bent down to look in at the man. Fletcher was facing him with that same reluctant tired sorrow, and Chris knew that it was all true, every word.

  His heart like lead, he got back in the car. He twisted the top off the bottle of mineral water and put it to his lips. It frothed unpleasantly in his mouth, and he only swallowed a little.

  ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Sorry. This is a shock.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Fletcher. ‘I’ll go on. We know that Miller was directly responsible for at least eleven deaths. Mainly soldiers and policemen. We also think he blew up an entire family—father, mother, two small children. That’s the sort of man he is. Killing is no problem for him.

  ‘Now the point is, as I said, he became a double agent. In return for immunity from prosecution, he passed on to us a good deal of valuable information; I can’t deny it. An entire active unit of the INLA was rounded up, and—oh, a lot of information. And, it’s a standard sort of deal, Springer or Daly was given a new identity, papers, money, and he came over here to start a new life as Barry Miller. It wasn’t too hard for him, actually. He was brought up in London; he doesn’t sound like an Irishman, does he? I don’t know how you feel about people like that escaping punishment. It’s a dirty world, Chris. I suppose you need dirty people to…Anyway.’

  He sighed.

  ‘Who’s this Carson?’ Chris said. ‘He keeps going on about him.’

  ‘The brother of the man whose family was killed. But he’s not important; he’s just a wild man. He’s all mouth. Miller’s in no danger from Carson. No, the reason I’m here is nothing to do with that. We discovered, I can’t tell you how, we discovered that Miller had never really turned at all. Oh, the information he’d given us had been good, no problem there, he’d genuinely delivered. But they were playing a deeper game. Miller and the INLA were aiming all the time to set him up precisely where he is now. They’ve got a new campaign planned—soft targets in the south of England: the homes of politicians, senior Army officers, civil servants, policemen and their families. It’s started already. You’ve probably heard about some of it on the news. And here he is with access to electronic equipment, a perfect cover, right in the heart of England…’

  No, Chris thought, no, no, it’s not true at all, it’s impossible. Barry was selling make-up and hiring stage lights, not making bombs; he wasn’t evil; he was just a liar. And this was a dream.

  He looked at the ham roll he’d taken a bite from. He didn’t feel like eating any more of it; he put it back in the plastic box and closed the lid. Fletcher felt in a carrier bag beside him on the floor.

  ‘Fancy an apple?’ he said.

  An apple would be easier to swallow, Chris thought. He took it with a nod. ‘Why are you telling me all this?’

  ‘Because I want your help.’

  ‘My help…To do what?’

  ‘Chris, I know he’s got a hideout somewhere. And I know you’ve been helping him with a spot of building.’

  ‘How d’you know all that?’

  ‘Ah, well. You remember our agreement; I can’t tell you how I know that. Security. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Security? What’s that mean? Phone tapping or something?’

  ‘I’m sorry. I can’t say.’

  Chris’s face twisted in a spasm of disgust. This whole thing was revolting. A moral stench seemed to be filling the whole car, in spite of the open doors and the air-freshener on the fascia. Fletcher seemed to sense what he was thinking.

  ‘You believe in democracy, Chris, I know that.’

  ‘Yeah. That’s why I find all this…so foul. What he’s doing, yeah, of course, but what you’re doing too. Don’t you see that?’

  ‘Mmm.’ Fletcher nodded sadly, took the top off the bottle, put it back without drinking. ‘Yes, I do. But democracy has a price. It doesn’t come free. The price of freedom is eternal vigilance, as someone said. And the price of democracy for’—he waved his hand, indicating the rest of the city—‘for everyone out there, is that a few people, a very few, have to work undemocratically. You see, Barry Miller doesn’t want democracy, so he tries to subvert it. I don’t mean argue against it. We don’t mind political argument, that’s what democracy means. But Barry Springer, Barry Miller, Michael Daly, that’s not his game at all. He’s playing a different game where you don’t stand up and ask for votes, you creep about in the dark and leave bombs to kill people. Innocent people. Women and children. He’s done it, Chris. He’s planning to do it again.’

  Chris said nothing. He knew Fletcher was right, but he still felt sickened. Fletcher was watching him. The man went on:

  ‘So there’s precious little point in me, people doing this sort of job, going about it in a democratic way, asking for votes. He doesn’t ask for votes before he plants a bomb. Put an X in the box if you want me to kill this mum and two kids…And it’s no good us fighting clean while these people are fighting dirty, because that would mean we’d lose. Everyone’d lose. And to my mind, that’s unthinkable. That’s why I’m a policeman, you see, Chris, and that’s why I’m proud to work for the Special Branch. By fighting in secret, fighting dirty, doing undemocratic things, we keep this infection controlled. We make the world safe for democracy. Does that sort of make sense?’

  Still Chris said nothing; but this time it was because he wanted to hear more. He nodded.

  ‘No, it’s not easy, this kind of work,’ Fletcher said. ‘It isn’t clean. You can’t expect to feel good about it. But we’re feeling bad on behalf of all those people out there, the innocent ones. We’re not innocent; we know. I don’t know if you’re religious. The Garden of Eden—you know that story. The Tree of the Knowledge o
f Good and Evil. Remember that? Before you eat the fruit you’re innocent, whatever you do is innocent, because you don’t understand. Then you eat it. And you’re never innocent again. You know now. And that’s painful, it’s a terrible thing. I know what I’m asking you, Chris. I’m asking you to betray a man you thought was a friend. I’m asking you to taste the fruit.

  ‘But I’ll tell you something. Losing that innocence is the first step on the road to real knowledge. To wisdom, if you like. You can’t get wisdom till you lose that childishness…Those people out there. Innocent, because they don’t know. Like children. Like sheep. No sheep can do evil, because they’re innocent, right? But no sheep can do good, either. If you don’t know what it is, you can’t do it. So it’s paradoxical, isn’t it. You can’t do good unless you stop being innocent. All the real good in the world is done by people who’ve tasted the fruit of that tree. And found it bitter and painful, just as you’re finding it bitter and painful to betray Barry Miller.

  ‘Well, there you are, Chris. I can’t put it any clearer than that. We’ve come right down to the bedrock. I won’t force you, I won’t make you do anything you don’t really want to. Don’t make your mind up now—think about it. What time d’you knock off work?’

  ‘Five, half-past, depends what there is to do.’ Chris’s voice sounded far away even to himself.

  ‘OK. Fine. Don’t give me an answer now. Can you come and see me again when you knock off?’

  Chris nodded. Then he said, ‘No. I’ll tell you now. You got a piece of paper?’

  Fletcher leaned across, took a Filofax from the glove compartment, and opened it at a blank page. He handed it to Chris together with a ballpoint pen.

  There was a sick, excited feeling in the pit of Chris’s stomach as he carefully drew a sketch map of the roundabout on the Woodstock Road, the road down to Wolvercote, the canal, the track through the woods. He took his time; it was important to get it right. Then he turned the page and sketched the group of huts.

  ‘That’s great,’ said Fletcher. ‘Superb. The next question is, when does he go there? If I knew he was going to be there at a particular time, I could arrange to have him arrested. We can surround the place. He’ll be armed. Far better to do it there than somewhere in town or at his house where he can keep his wife and child hostage…Any idea when he’s likely to go to this place?’