by Mike Bursell
I waved the point away and rolled my eyes. “OK, just get on with it. You were saying?”
“So if the station knows, we've got to assume that the Enforcers know.” She broke off from her chain of thought. “That makes me so mad. I just can't tell you just how angry this is going to make Geoff.” She glanced at me.
“Geoff, your Deputy Chief?” I prompted.
“Geoff, my – the – Deputy Chief.”
“But you mustn't let that show,” I said.
“What do you mean?”
“You mustn't let the Enforcers know you've found out!” I exclaimed.
“What do you mean?” she demanded. “We've got to root him out. And any others! Think of the damage he's doing.”
I was horrified. She sounded like Mo at his most naïve, and I was astonished how thick she was being. “And how are you going to explain how you found out about him? When the Enforcers ask. And they will: you know they will.”
“Well, we've got this...” she pointed at the paper, and then stopped. “Oh, yes. We haven't got this, have we?”
I picked the sheet up from the table and folded it up, placing it back into the envelope. “No. You don't. Because if you did, then they'd be after Mo, wouldn't they?”
Her shoulders slumped. “So, what do we do?”
I thought hard, trying to consider a way to discuss this without giving away far more than I wanted to. “Do you remember those old spy films you used to make me watch?”
“You remember those? I thought you would have forgotten them by now.”
To be honest, I didn't remember much about them, other than that Mum had made me watch different ones over and over on Saturday and Sunday afternoons when I'd been small. And before most of them were banned as “dangerous” and “subversive” by the Government, and they started monitoring what you watched. I tapped my forehead with a single finger. “Good memory.”
She raised her eyebrows, but didn't seem to query it any further. “Anyway – what about them?”
“They always used to leave moles – internal spies- in place, didn’t they? So if we – you – make it clear that you know about him, then it'll be suspicious.”
“Sure,” she said, “I get that. But if we just leave it, then they have someone who can get whatever information they want out of the police, right?”
“Nope. They have someone who can get whatever information you want out of the police. You just need to make sure that the information he gets to see is what you think he should channel out to the Enforcers.”
“Turn him into a double agent? What if he won't play along, and tells the other Enforcers?” Mum asked.
“No. The beauty is that you don't tell him that he's a double agent: you just feed him information. Some of it – most of it, I expect – needs to be real, because otherwise they'll get suspicious.”
“Hmm. We'll need to move him to another department. But we could make it look like a promotion. Geoff'll need to work out the best way...”
I left her forming a plan, muttering to herself, and went to do the washing up.
“Have you decided what to do about the boy?” Mum asked later, while I was doing my teeth.
“Boy?” I replied, once I'd spat out my mouthful of toothpaste.
“Mo. You said that you'd decided that he was the one who sent that article, remember?”
She was right, but in all the discussion about how his Dad was an Enforcer agent, I'd managed to forget about Mo. I felt a moment of awful guilt. “What do you think I should do?” I asked.
“You could go round and see him?” she suggested. “Say sorry?”
“I … I don't think I should,” I said. “Go round.”
I could see Mum wondering why. The real reason, of course, was because I didn't dare be seen with him, but I needed another reason. “Wouldn't it be suspicious if they were tracking me? And him? And you? I mean, if you and … Geoff … and Mo and I were, well – if they were keeping an eye on ...”
“Lena?”
“Yes, Mum?”
“Put down your toothbrush.”
I put down my toothbrush.
“You're babbling,” she informed me.
“I'm not.”
“You were.”
“Little bit. Maybe,” I accepted.
“There's no reason to think that the Enforcers will be paying any particular attention to me. Or the Deputy Chief Constable. And I don't think it would be at all suspicious if you were to go and see your boyfri...”
“He's not my boyfriend!” I protested.
“Sorry. Of course he's not.” It was entirely obvious from her tone of voice that she didn't believe me at all. “Anyway, I don't think there's anything suspicious about your going to see your school friend to discuss homework over the weekend, for instance.”
I was about to complain again when I realised that this gave Mum the perfect reason to believe that she understood why I didn't want to go round to Mo's: that I was embarrassed.
“I'm going to phone him,” I announced. “That's what we do.”
“That's what you do.”
“Yes,” I said defiantly. “It's what 'kids these days' who aren't going out with each other do.”
“Kids these days. Huh!” she said. “But make sure you do. He took a real risk printing that thing off and putting it through the door. A real risk. I think he deserves a bit of attention.”
I suddenly realised that she thought I should probably give him a snog, and I tried very hard to look positive about the idea. But Mo? Mo? I really don't think so, Mum.
Chapter 16 – I don't think I'll mention it to my parents
He got it, luckily. Not a snog, obviously: yech. No – the fact that I really meant the apology. Mum had called the Deputy Chi... Geoff, and they had agreed to meet for lunch. I tried not to think about the possibility that they might be “romantic”, and waved her off. As soon as she was gone, I ran up to my room to call Mo. Once I had the phone receiver in my hand, it took me a couple of minutes actually to call him, because I kept losing my nerve, but when I did, he picked up immediately.
“You OK to talk?” I asked.
“Yup, fine,” he said, evenly.
“Parents not around?”
“No – they've … gone to see Fliss. Maybe stay down there for a couple of days.”
“Your sister.”
Silence.
“M... Floyd. I got your … your message.”
Silence.
“Look, I'm really sorry.”
Silence.
“I... I thought you didn't understand. About why I called my Mum. I thought you were convinced I was one of them.”
“No: don't be silly. I know you're not. And I did understand about why you called your Mum. I'm not like Jenny and Danni and that crew. It's … it's just not easy. Given my … my family background.” He half-laughed.
“I hadn't realised. I should've guessed,” I said. “About them.”
“No. No, you shouldn't. I've tried not to let on – give anything away. It's the last thing I want people at school knowing. And...”
“What?” I asked.
“I didn't want you to know, either. I thought you might judge me. Or just not trust me.” I'd expected him to sound desperate somehow: needing to convince me somehow. But he didn't: he just sounded sad.
There was nothing to say for a while, until I decided that it was time to break the awkwardness. “My Mum thinks we're going out.”
There was a snort from the other end of the line. And then Mo laughed: properly this time. “What did you say?” he asked.
“To make her think we were? Nothing,” I explained. “Just denied it. I think she's so desperate for me to have a boyfriend – or even a girlfriend, frankly – that the more I denied it, the more she believed it.”
“Well, if you don't mind, I don't think I'll mention it to my parents.”
“Probably best,” I agreed.
“Did she see the letter?” he asked hesitantly.
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“Yup. And bad news. She recognised him,” I said.
He swore. And then apologised. Sweet boy. “What is she going to do? I mean, don't get me wrong: I'm all for messing with them, but you just can't tell what the Enforcers might do: they might retaliate against your Mum.”
He really is a sweet boy. He's the one most likely to get into trouble, and he's worrying about my Mum. “I think I've sorted that. She's friendly with one of the senior officers who he works with, and I think they're planning to feed him information, without letting on that they know he's undercover.”
“OK. I … don't want him to get into trouble. If you see what I mean.”
“I think so,” I replied.
“He's, … well he's still my Dad. Even if I don't like what he does, and even if I don't trust him not to turn me in if he found out about all this … he's still my Dad.”
I could almost see him shrugging as he said the last few words. He was beginning to sound a bit melancholy, so I decided it was time to change the subject. It wasn't something I wanted to say, but it was really important, so I decided to just do it. We may not be very good at this whole thing, but we do try to be honest with each other, at least. “Look, Floyd,” I said.
“Yup?”
Just say it! “Do you want to stop?”
“Stop what?” he sounded confused.
“This. Doing all this. You're running a huge risk, all the more so, given what your parents' jobs are. Do you want to stop. Pack it in?”
“Pack it in?” he laughed.
Why's he laughing? “Yes. Just drop it.”
“Why? Do you want to?” he asked, though he didn't seem to think I did.
“If you do, yes. I don't want to put you in danger.”
“What do you think keeps me sane?” he exclaimed. “What do you think lets me keep going, despite what my family are up to?”
“Err – doing this?” I responded, feeling rather foolish.
“Yes. Doing this. Hitting back. Planning the attacks, working it through – with you – and then making it all happen. Seeing how people react, what works, what doesn't. All of that. And thinking – well, hoping – that some of it's making a difference, and that we can change something. Change enough, that my parents will stop what they're doing, and prats like Ryan won't get themselves beaten up, and stupid idiots like Danni won't put themselves in positions where they could end up in a camp.”
I'd never heard him talk so long about why he was doing everything before. It made sense. It wasn't far off what my reasons were, to be honest, but for him there was an added, personal angle.
I didn't get to meet Mum's Geoff that day – she returned home alone, rather to my relief. I was watching an old film on the screen and just beginning to wonder whether to get something out for supper when I heard the front door open, and Mum joined me in the sitting room a couple of moments later.
“Everything OK here?” she asked.
“Fine,” I responded.
“Get that misunderstanding sorted with your 'young man'?” she asked, archly.
“Yes. Get that business done with your 'young man'?” I replied.
She picked up a cushion from the sofa and threw it at me. “Cheeky. Yes. All sorted. There'll be a transfer to another department, and a change in access to certain materials, shall we say. And we'll be looking out for any other of his colleagues who may be around. Thanks for the suggestion. Geoff had a similar idea, actually – it seems that ours isn't the only Force with similar problems, and some of the senior officers have been talking about how to deal with this sort of thing for a while.” She sat down next to me. “Do you have that piece of paper, by the way?”
I looked away from the screen and at her. “Err, no, sorry. Did you need it?”
“No. But what have you done with it? Did you just throw it away?” She sounded concerned, and peered over at the recycling bin to see if it was there.
“Decided to have a quick barbecue for lunch,” I told her. “I had to light it somehow.”
“And the envelope?” she asked.
“And the envelope,” I confirmed.
“Good work,” she said, nodding in appreciation. “You seem to have a talent for this sort of thing.”
If only you knew, Mum, I thought to myself, if only you knew.
She was on duty that evening, and I mentioned that I might be going out. She looked at me quizzically, clearly convinced that it was to see Mo, but didn't ask any further. It wasn't Mo that I was interested in talking to, though, but Denise.
I gave her a call as soon as Mum went out. It wasn't that I didn't want Mum to know that I was talking to her, but on the other hand, I wanted to have a chat without Mum asking me all about it. Luckily Denise was in. When I mentioned that Mum was out, she invited me up for supper, before I even mentioned that I wanted to have a word. “Bring someone else, if you like,” she added, all innocence.
Just great, I thought, Mum's already talked to her.
“Or not,” she added hastily, as if suddenly realising that it might Mo I wanted to talk about in the first place.
“It'll just be me,” I replied. “See you in half an hour?”
“Sure. Any time from now,” she replied, and we hung up.
It was about fifteen minutes later that I arrived at her door, and she showed me in, bustling me into the sitting room, and offering me a cup of tea or coffee. I went with a glass of water, and sat down watching Si outside, hanging the washing out in the sun and a light breeze, including several black clerical shirts. They looked a bit odd without the white collar in them, suspended on the line between two pegs. Denise came in with a glass of something for herself and some water for me.
“Hope you don't mind,” she said. “I fancied a sherry. It's very 'vicarish', but I do actually enjoy a glass from time to time, so why not?” She sat down in on the sofa across from me, not expecting an answer. “What can I do for you? A social call, a godmother call, religious instruction or something else?”
“Godmother call, I think,” I replied. Denise – and Mum – had always made it clear that if I needed an adult to talk to – about stuff that I wasn't ready to talk to Mum about – then she was always available. There had been a couple of times over the years when I'd been upset about stuff at school, and had gone to her, but nothing recently. It was good to know that the offer still stood.
“OK. Would you like me to de-collar?” She was wearing her priest's dog collar, as usual. “I know that sometimes people find it easier to speak to a 'person' if they're not looking to speak to a priest specifically.” She reached to hear throat to remove it.
“Whatever: doesn't bother me.” I was so used to seeing in both with it on and with it off that I didn't usually think about it one way or the other.
“I'll take it off, then if you don't mind. Nice to be able to go informal for a change.” She pulled it, and the piece of white plastic slipped out of the shirt collar. She put it down on the side table and undid the top button. “So, what can I do for you? Mary mentioned a boy...” She looked a little concerned.