by Mike Bursell
“Do you think that more people are like that, these days?” I demanded.
“I don't see how it can go any other way,” she admitted, sadly. “But from conversations I have around the station – and from some of the work that I have to do – I know that there are lots of families who are, well, what I'd call normal. Still.”
“But it's changing,” I stated.
“Yes. And we need to find a way to stop that.”
“We?” I asked. What has she guessed?
“We, us: adults, society, I mean. This isn't something for children to worry about, or try to fix. It's not your fault, and it's not your responsibility. And, frankly, I don't think there's very much that children can do.”
She's guessed nothing, then. But I think she's wrong that there's nothing we can do. “How, though? How can you change it?” In normal circumstances, I might have argued with her, but the fewer suggestions she had that I might already be trying to do that, the better.
She seemed stumped by this question, and her shoulders slumped down. “I don't know. I really don't know.” Then, in a rather obvious attempt to change the subject, she came out with, “And speaking of family chats: what about the boy?”
“Oh, he's not really a boy.” I caught myself, and even managed a little giggle. “Well, he is a boy, but he's not a boy. You know what I mean.”
She nodded, smiling.
“But he's a friend. Or I thought he was.”
She was quiet for a moment, waiting for me to continue. When I didn't, she said, “Well, there seem to be three possibilities. One: he really isn't your friend, in which case good riddance. Two, there's a misunderstanding on his side.”
“And three?” I prompted.
“And three: there's a misunderstanding on your side.” She got up. “Ready for some supper?”
I nodded. “I'll be down in a minute.”
She headed out of the door and downstairs. I wiped my tears on my sleeve and took a glance behind the bed. The phone's light was blinking, but I wasn't ready to answer it yet. I followed Mum out my bedroom and down to supper.
The next I saw of Mo was a picture of him flanked by two Enforcers. It was Saturday morning, and when I got down to breakfast, Mum was yawning over a cup of tea, with a paper envelope sat in front of her on the table, propped up against the jam.
“Sorry,” she said, gesturing at the plate in front of her, “but I was hungry when I came off shift, so I've already had a piece of toast.” She pushed the chair away and stood up. “Fancy a fry up?”
She was making a point of not mentioning the envelope. We didn't get much actual paper mail any more – even bills, which Mum said were the last things to go – had mainly moved online, but there was always a flurry of cards around Christmastime from people who still sent them, and a local advert through the letter box from time to time, usually about pizza or from one of the local Indian takeaways. It was mainly spam, which went straight in the recycling. But this was a single white envelope, and instead of an address there was a single word printed on the front: “Lena”.
I sat down in the chair that Mum had vacated and looked it over. It didn't look very thick, so I assumed that it didn't have much in it. I picked it up. No more than a sheet of two of paper, from the weight and the feel of it. I turned it over. Nothing on the back.
“Going to sniff it?” asked Mum, from over by the hob.
“Sniff it?” I asked in bewilderment.
“Don't they do that anymore?”
“Do what?”
“Dab a bit of perfume or aftershave on the back of a love letter?”
“It's not a love letter,” I insisted. That said, I'd never received a love letter – apart from a couple of Valentines cards at primary school – so I gave it a surreptitious waft past my nose when she turned back to the frying pan.
“Nothing?” she said, back still to me.
I stuck my tongue out at her. But there hadn't been any smell to the letter, and who would write a love letter and print the name on the front? And who would send me a love letter, anyway?
I held it for a couple of seconds more, wondering what it could hold. It occurred to me that it could be hate mail: threats or just an unpleasant letter from someone who didn't like what I'd done by helping Ryan. Although I was helping Danni and that lot as much as Ryan, I reckoned. I was in two minds about opening it with Mum there, but decided, after some thought, that if it was something nasty, then I'd be happier to have her there than not. And if it was really nasty, like a death threat or something, then I'd definitely want her to be around to help me decide what to do.
Or maybe someone's found out about Floyd, I realised. Without waiting a moment longer, I put my finger under the flap at the back of the envelope and pulled it open. It ripped in one single movement, and I pulled out a single sheet of paper. I unfolded it, and turned it the right way up.
Somebody had visited a web page and printed it off. At the very top was a banner which read “Enforcenet”, and directly underneath that a picture – a photograph – of three people. Two of them were adults, the other one was younger: a boy, dressed in a school uniform. Our school's uniform. The other two were also in uniform. Enforcer uniform.
The boy was Mo.
The Enforcers were his parents.
And the headline read “The Perfect Undercover Family”.
I stood up, backing away from the table, and thrusting the page away from me as if were coated in acid. I moved so quickly that the chair tipped over and onto the floor, and my hand caught the remains of the mug of tea, spilling it across the table.
Mum span round from the hob, snatching the pan from the heat. “Lena – are you OK?”
I backed further away from the table, my hands outstretched, trying to ward off the words on the page.
“What? What is it?” she demanded, setting the pan down hard on the kitchen surface. She took a stride towards me, and then, following my gaze, took two quick steps to the table, snatching up the sheet of paper. Shaking off the tea that had spilled over it, she scanned it. I lowered my hands, and picking up the chair from the floor, sat heavily down on it.
“Who is this?” Mum asked, as she leaned against the table, still looking down over the page.
What do I say? My eyes were filling up. I shook my head.
“Who sent this?” she was angry, I could tell, but not with me. Her eyes flicked back down.
“I d-don't know,” I stammered.
“Isn't this that boy from your year?”
“Yes,” I replied. I was getting the tears under control but my voice felt leaden: completely lacking in expression. “Mo. The boy. From my year.”
“OK,” she said, her eyes still scrolling across the paper, “OK.” She held the page out to me. I waved it away. “No. You need to read this. All of it.”
She reached forward, and I reluctantly took the sheet, hand shaking. “What is this? Where's it from?”
“Unless someone's faked it, I think it's from the Enforcer internal website. That's what it's called: The Enforcenet. I don't know how they got access to it, unless they're an Enforcer, or … well. You read it.”
Across the top was information about the page, where it had come from – a web address that meant nothing to me – and the date it was printed. Just below that was the date of the article: just under five months ago. I read on.
The Perfect Undercover Family
Gerald and Alison Williams are celebrating the news that their family is – now almost entirely – an Enforcer family. Alison joined the Enforcers before the Government even came to power, and her husband followed her lead once we started officially recruiting. He was surprised, when he was accepted into the Corps, to discover that Alison was not just the legal secretary he had previously thought, but an Undercover Enforcer. Impressed with her ability to keep secrets and the excitement and importance of her job keeping tabs on the enemies of the Government, he volunteered for undercover work, and after several months of training, w
as accepted for a role inside his local police force – who are unaware of his position as an Enforcer. Both of them have received decorations for their work providing information to safeguard the Government and undermine its enemies.
Shown here with their son Mo (15), they were overjoyed with the announcement today that their daughter, Fliss (19) has been accepted as an undercover operative in the Junior Enforcement Corps. Fliss is currently training in Cornwall and unable to be photographed with her happy family, but was able to call her parents to deliver the news. “We are both hugely proud,” said Alison, a sentiment echoed by Gerry. “We can only hope that our son follows in his sister's footsteps when the time comes,” he said. They took the decision to tell their son about their jobs two weeks ago, when Fliss told them that he was applying for the position for which she has been accepted. “We thought it was time to explain what we do and the importance of the work to this country – and its young people. We know that some youths can step up and show the responsibility that the Enforcers need, and hope that when the time comes, we can complete the set and become a family united as proud Enforcers.”
I lowered the page.
Mum looked at me. “Who sent this?”
“He did. Mo did,” I replied, knowing that it must have been him.
“And has he? Signed up, I mean. Is he an Enforcer?”
I didn't need to think: I knew the answer. “No. No, he's not.”
Chapter 15 – She actually blushed
Mum and I chatted over eggs, bacon and black pudding. I needed to be careful about what I said, of course, but once I was clear that it was, after all, a misunderstanding – and a pretty huge one, at that – on my side, and that he was the friend I'd been upset about the night before, I found that she wasn't probing too hard. Maybe she didn't want to press me because she thought that Mo was my boyfriend, but at least that meant that I didn't need to explain about anything to do with what our actual relationship was about: Floyd.
I was reading the page out loud to her and discussing how awful it must be for Mo when she stopped me. “Wait: read that bit out again.”
“Which bit?”
“About his father volunteering for undercover work. I only skimmed it before,” she explained.
“OK. 'Impressed with her ability to keep secrets and the excitement and importance of her job keeping tabs on the enemies of the Government, he volunteered for undercover work'...” I started.
“Yup, not that bit: carry on.”
“...and after several months of training,” I continued, “was accepted a role inside his local police force – who are unaware of his position as an Enforcer.”
“Oh, no: his local force. That's us! Pass it over.”
I did.
She scrutinised the picture. “No. No: it is. It's Gerry Parsons. I can't believe it.”
“But his Mo's surname is Williams,” I countered.
“Well, yes, but the whole 'undercover' bit?”
“Ah, yes.” She looked sick. “Do you know him, then? Mo's Dad?”
“He's a senior civilian staff member. I don't know him well – he's over at headquarters and I'm not often there, but ...” She got up.
“What?”
“I've got to tell the Geoff,” she said, reaching for her phone.
“Who? Wait!” I said, and she stopped, surprised.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Who are you calling?”
“The Deputy Chief Constable. His name's Geoff.”
“Don't. Don't call him: not immediately,” I pleaded.
“Why ever not?” she demanded.
“It's Saturday, right?”
“Yes, sure,” she agreed.
“So telling him now's not going to make a difference, right? It could wait until Monday?” I suggested.
“Probably,” she agreed. “But why wait?”
It was time to teach Mum some trade craft, though I hoped that I wouldn't need to explain how I knew about it. “How are you going to tell him what's going on?”
“I was going to phone him up and explain,” she said, shrugging as if it were obvious.
“And that would be safe?” I asked.
“Safe how?” She was flustered from the news, and clearly wasn't thinking about the bigger picture.
“What if the Enforcers have bugged your phone?” I asked.
“Well, they might have, but I'm not sure that I'm important enough to be worth bothering with,” Mum replied.
“And the Deputy Chief? Is he important enough?”
“Well, he is... Oh, I see,” she looked rather embarrassed. And cross, too.
“And even if they're not listening in on his phone,” I continued, “it's not that unlikely that they might be listening for words like 'undercover Enforcer' or even 'Parsons'? Is it?”
“You're right,” she said, looking at me a little oddly.
“And a text, or email...?” I prompted, not wanting her to dwell too much on why I was aware of this sort of stuff.
“Would be even less secure. Because it's even easier to monitor those electronically than it is for them to monitor phone calls,” she said, as I nodded along.
“So, what are you going to do?”
She had a think. “Probably best to meet him in person. I could give him a call and suggest that we meet up for a drink or coffee or something.” She was nodding to herself now, becoming more convinced by this train of thought.
“Wouldn't that be a little suspicious? Unless you normally hang out with a Deputy Chief Constable?” I said, jokingly.
Mum blushed. She actually blushed.
“Wait a mo,” I said, “have you...”
“Unimportant. Irrelevant.” she stated. “Look, I've been meaning to mention... And he's not directly in my chain of command, so it's...”
“It's irrelevant,” I interrupted, suddenly realising that the idea that my Mum might have a boyfriend was something that I didn't really want to get into right now. “But we are going to have a big talk. Soon.”
Mum looked so relieved and embarrassed at the same time that I almost pushed the point, but decided not to. She picked up her mug of tea and hid behind it, looking for all the world like a toddler caught doing something naughty like scribbling on the wallpaper.
“What's important is how we tell him. If you have a legitimate...” I paused for moment to glare at Mum “... semi-legitimate reason for seeing him socially, then you might as well use it. If you're sure you can do it without arousing suspicion.” It occurred to me that having Mum under suspicion would be a really bad plan: it might mean more attention in my direction as well. Not to mention Mo's. Though maybe Mo was actually safer than I'd thought before. Don't know: file and leave to consider later on.
“Well,” she said, thinking it through, “some people at the station know, so it's not exactly a secret...”
“People at the station know, but I don't?” I interjected. She blushed again.
“I – we – had to tell a few people. Because of the rank difference. We could get into trouble otherwise. I was planning to tell you soon, honest...”