Philian Gregory

by Simon J. Stephens

  “What?”, Walker interrupted, “You think there may be something in all this. You want me to confess?”

  “No, no, sorry. Look, let’s just roll with it. We’ll contact you shortly about a hearing. In the meantime, …”

  “Yes, I know, you want my credentials and all my passes. Here, good luck with them.”, Walker threw his warrant card onto the desk and stormed out.

  Whatever the allegations were, he knew what this was really about. Yes, he’d bent the rules a little in checking certain things out, but he was at ease with all that because, if Gregory and Carrington were to be believed, he was helping to prevent a serious crime being committed. That was his remit as a policeman. It would never change. The hardest part of it all was that he had already come to a decision. He’d looked into the life and background of Alison Connolly, the mysterious Treasury official, and found nothing. He’d followed through on the 22com phones and on the shipping process that they were taking. He’d even managed to retrieve the technical test results on the handsets that had been done prior to the issue of their licence and confirmed to himself what he already knew, that they were safe. Then there had been The Haven. That had simply presented an insurmountable brick wall, which left only General Masters. Like Connolly, there was nothing suspicious in his record. The nett effect of all that was that he had planned to contact the two men he’d met with and told them they were living in some sort of Quixotic fantasy world.

  Then they’d suspended him. That had changed everything. Life may throw up its fair share of unusual coincidences, but what had happened to him was beyond putting down to a mere accident of fate. He was generally a placid man. He tried his best at all times to control his emotions and maintain a level of professionalism that could be held up as an example. Now though, he was angry. Angry and fired up with a righteous desire to see truth prevail. He hadn’t worked all those years to be rejected and scorned at the end. He hadn’t stuck to the straight and narrow only for others to destroy his hard-earned reputation. The phones were due to be shipped on the Friday evening. He knew when and where from and, as soon as he arrived home, he fired up the single-use mobile he’d been supplied with and sent those details to Carrington and Gregory.

  That helped him feel a little better. But it wasn’t enough. By late afternoon, he was sitting on a bench in his local park with a takeaway coffee in hand, passing small talk with an elderly vagrant who insisted on bringing the local pigeon population closer and closer with the offer of a handful of crumbs. He stuck it out. That time in the park was important.

  By evening, he was at his local church. It wasn’t so much a traditional church as a modern, sprawling complex of buildings that housed a number of evangelical groups and which could always be relied on to offer a time of worship and a place of prayer. He’d joined the group when they were in the early stages of setting up. He’d been on fire with the zeal of a newly-converted Christian and had helped them in numerous ways. He’d always rejected the offer of a leadership position, however. He was a man of unquestionable faith, yes, but he struggled at times with the religious aspect of things. And some of his fellow Christians, well, they were harder to deal with at times than the toughest of old lags that he’d had to put away. Despite the few negatives, he could always rely on help and support from other worshippers and it helped him to forget, or at least come to terms with, his other problems.

  Carrington, meanwhile, breathed a sigh of relief, having been waiting expectantly by the phone all day. The clock was ticking and he was beginning to wonder if Walker would come through. It had always been fifty-fifty. Not only did they have to convince him of what they believed was happening, they also had to rely on his being able to find any useful information without alerting those people behind events.

  “The game is on.”, he told Gregory, waving the phone at him, “Plans for the storage depot, a location and details of the guards in place and the shipping procedure. You up for a journey to the smoke?”

  “London?”, Gregory asked, “Seems a bizarre place for storage? You sure.”

  “Okay, not London as in Buck House, Westminster and the West End. The outskirts. Neasden way. I can see the logic. Shipped in from Dartford, sent to the capital, then distributed out. I guess fifty-percent of them won’t travel more than fifty miles away. A smaller place than we envisaged though. May be a help or a hindrance. We can but try.”

  They were aboard one of the last trains South that night, enjoying the solitude of near-empty carriages and putting the final touches to their plans.

  “I need you to promise me something.”, Carrington told his friend as the train pulled into Euston.

  “Go on.”

  “I need to know that I can trust you to trust me. Whatever happens.”

  “Don’t go all cryptic on me.”, Gregory forced a laugh.

  “No listen,”, Carrington grabbed his arm lightly, “I’m serious. We know what we want to do. We have a plan that will work as well as any. But, well, the fact is, we’ve been very lucky so far. If that luck runs out, I’m resigned to it being the end. I’ve been able to achieve a lot more than I ever believed I’d be able to. You though, you have a future ahead of you. If it comes to it, promise me that you’ll let me do what I have to do and that you’ll listen when I ask that special favour of you. Promise?”

  “I promise.”, his friend leapt onto the platform after him, “But I still don’t quite get it.”

  “You’ll know. When the time’s right, you’ll know.”

  Various roundabout tube journeys, a bus ride or two and a final walk through a small housing estate brought the two men to the shabby, wire fence that surrounded a semi-industrial business park just off the North Circular Road. The building they were looking for was in the centre of that complex, unusual in its design but functional nonetheless. Whilst it shared a core design of grim metal panels with its neighbours, at some point in time a series of offices had been built in front of it and formed a sort of arched entrance with rooms above. It would never be pretty, but it certainly had a warmer feel to it than the other buildings on the estate.

  Had they had the luxury of more planning time, Carrington and Gregory would have approached things differently. With twenty-four hours’ notice, and the clock ticking to the phone’s official launch, their options were limited and the method they’d agreed on was crude. They each carried enough fuel and explosives to tackle the pallets of phones that they expected to see loaded into the delivery vehicles that were tucked away in that warehouse. The first shipment was for one million units. At first, this had made them think of a huge mountain of goods, stacked floor to ceiling in a cavernous building. That was until Carrington did the maths and calculated that the whole shipment would fit into less than a dozen trucks. The technical specs they’d received had been encouraging in this respect. The phones were small and light with minimal packaging. It had also told them that their lightness was achieved thanks to using a very fine plastic casing that was both strong and particularly susceptible to the accelerant that was in their rucksacks. What hadn’t been so encouraging was the page of test data that shows the units to emit less harmful radiation than any other units. That was something of a mystery, but they wouldn’t be fooled by it. Their guess was that the data had been forged. The reality, as they would later find out, was something far less predictable.

  “You ready?”, Carrington asked.

  “As I’ll ever be.”, Gregory replied.

  “Good. Then let’s get dirty.”

  They skirted the industrial park until they reached the iron cover of a storm drain that had clearly not been visible, let alone examined, for a long time. It moved under their combined weight and they let the solid metal disc drop over them as they slipped into the stinking space. Using small torches, they navigated through the tunnel until it veered off into a smaller pipe that made the previous one smell positively fresh. Carrington slipped into that sewage ou
tlet first, which allowed Gregory the luxury of vomiting before he followed.

  “The things we do.”, he muttered as he controlled the heaving of his stomach.

  “It doesn’t get any better, I’m afraid.”, Carrington whispered, clearly suffering in his own way.

  “Let’s just go.”, Gregory sighed, “We’ll compare notes later.”

  The sewer terminated in a ladder that led to the surface. According to the plans they had, that exit would put them in the yard of the warehouse, open to any eyes that were on them until they were able to dart towards one of the new fire doors that had been fitted to the extension and so into the building. The cast iron lid moved easily under Carrington’s touch and its movement was low enough down to miss the scope of the floodlights that were currently idle. The two men used this weakness in the buildings defences to slide on their bellies to the fire door which Carrington opened quickly using a highly-illegal lock pick.

  “So far, so good.”, he whispered, “You okay?”

  Gregory nodded as he moved past his friend and into the corridor that connected the offices to the main warehouse. Standing either side of the door to that space, they pushed it open gently and saw a fleet of twelve liveried vans lined up in front of a massive roller shutter door.

  Beside each of the trucks, two armed guards stood sentry. That was something they hadn’t anticipated, although knowing that General Masters was behind the security for the place, it wasn’t a huge surprise. It shouldn’t stop them in the execution of their task. After all, they had a contingency for this event. It might however be a hindrance in their escape.

  Using hand signals, they confirmed the next steps with each other. Gregory retreated back into the office space and followed a different route to his friend. As he did this, Carrington retrieved a small drone from his rucksack. It was an adaptation of a commercially available product, programmable to follow a set route and small enough to be adaptable in shape. He’d spent only an hour or so in working on it. It wasn’t perfect but it would do. He adjusted the settings a little to compensate for what he saw before his eyes, then let it loose into the warehouse space.

  The first guard who saw it was so taken aback that he let off a shot that reverberated around the warehouse and took a chunk out of the lower brickwork.

  “It’s a rat!”, his colleague shouted, “Calm down. You could have killed one of us.”

  “Sorry.”, the other replied, “I didn’t expect it.”

  “In Neasden!”, another guard joined them, laughing loudly, “I’m only surprised we haven’t seen more. Where did it go.”

  They joined forces to track the artificial rodent as it scurried from truck to truck. Behind them, Carrington slipped under the vehicles and placed the charges they’d prepared. At around the seventh truck, the rat made a run for it and narrowly escaped being shot as it climbed the wall and exited the building through a small vent. That gave Philian Gregory the opportunity that he’d needed to drop down from the long-forgotten mezzanine space that linked to the office block and onto the nearest truck. His soft-soled shoes made no sound as he landed and he was just able to roll under the truck before the last of the guards took up their proper positions again.

  “You want to tell me what’s going on?”, General Masters roared at the guards as he entered the room.

  “Sorry, Sir. A rat, sir.”

  “A rat! A rat! And you let off a volley of shots at it! This isn’t a shooting alley.”

  Carrington and Gregory could see the General’s feet as he moved along the row of trucks. They were both positioned up in axle space of the vehicles, hidden by safety bars that ran almost to the floor.

  “Parker.”, the General roared, “Come here.”

  They couldn’t hear most of what was being said although the words ‘rats’ came up several times.

  “You clear?”, the General asked.

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Then do it.”

  The high-pressure hoses came from nowhere. Their jets were powerful enough to pierce skin and they took no prisoners as they flushed the two intruders from under the trucks, their jets cajoling the flailing men nearer and nearer until they rested at the General’s feet.

  “My apologies to you all.”, he laughed, “It seems we do have something of a rat infestation after all. Keep the hoses on. I’ll get a disposal team in for whatever these vermin have left behind. Meanwhile, they still stink to high heaven. Send them up against that wall.”

  The last that Gregory and Carrington saw was the General’s arm waving off to the left and the rush of water that sent them in that direction and smacked them against the far wall.

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  The early Easter that year was something of a consolation to DI Walker, at a time when there seemed little else to be joyful about. It was the period of the Christian calendar that he most liked and which, to him, represented the heart of the faith that had given him something special in his life. Christmas was good; God humbling himself to become a little infant was worth celebrating. The years of Ministry were never to be forgotten and the teachings were as real to him today as they must have been to the select handful of eye-witnesses at the time. But Easter, well, that was something else. The One who could have chosen so many easier ways, humiliated, beaten, scorned, rejected and hung on a cross to die. That was sacrifice. That was the sacrifice that had convinced him. Of course, Easter wasn’t just about the Blood, it was also about the Resurrection. He didn’t bang on about it, not unless someone asked, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t passionate about sharing his faith. It had changed and influenced his own life immeasurably.

  The idea for a march came spontaneously. Part of Walker’s thinking was that if something big was about to kick off, then it made sense for him to tap into the resources available and try to bring some light into dark times. The other assorted groups who shared his own church’s building were up for the idea. They were a diverse group. There were ethnically-diverse Pentecostalists who threatened to bring down the roof most Sundays and there were white, middle-class Quakers who sat silently between services. There were mainstream Anglicans and Methodists, each peculiar in their own way, and there was also the Salvation Army. His own preference was with the Wesleyans, but that identity meant nothing to the others as he garnered their support. There was one message to share and the opportunity to share that message was never to be missed.

  They set out on Friday evening, timing their travel on the Tube to fit neatly between the rush-hour exodus out of Central London and the later inflow of theatre-goers and other party people. That timing was important. They filled numerous carriages and had to catch up with each other at a central rallying point as train after train left more and more of them waiting to board. By seven, they were assembled and ready to go. The majority of people who watched their preparations gave them only a cursory glance, although many of the more elderly ones took a little longer to give a nod to something that you really didn’t see too much of these days.

  From Trafalgar Square, they marched in an orderly fashion through the most popular thoroughfares and out towards the City. They then circled back and took in the high-fashion locations and the secluded Dickensian backways, all the time singing joyful songs and sharing, whenever possible, the Promise that they believed in. In a multi-cultural centre as diverse as London, their progress was eyed suspiciously by some, enthusiastically by others, but they felt no threat against them. Diversity brought with it equality and that brought with it acceptance, grudging or not. The ranks of police and army officers who were monitoring the dangers on the street had no cause to suspect that they weren’t what they appeared to be. Stopping them would be more problematic than letting them carry on; besides, their songs added a pleasant taint to the fear-filled atmosphere.

  After more than an hour and with the light beginning to fade, the brass band gave way to the acapella harmonies of the Pent
ecostals, who then yielded to the rousing hymns of the Methodists. Before them, they carried a cross. It wasn’t like the old days of Billy Graham ministries when thousands rushed to repent, but a number of people asked questions and read the tracts they were given with interest.

  Calling for silence, the Lead Pastor of the assembly stopped the group in a narrow side-street and asked them all to sit and rest. The march had been exhausting and they found themselves to be tired and thirsty. The Pastor began a prayer. It was a simple prayer that lasted only a few minutes, after which he nodded to Walker.

  “If it’s God’s Will.”, he whispered to him.

  “Thank you.”, Walker replied, breaking away from the group to knock loudly on the nearest door to them.

  “Hello!”, he called, knocking louder.

  “What can I do for you?”, the disembodied voice they heard tried to make itself heard without opening the door more than was necessary.

  “Sorry to disturb you.”, Walker replied, “We were wondering if you might allow us to fill our water bottles, please. There are no shops nearby and we’ve been out for a while. We’re a local church group doing a little street ministry.”

  “Christians?”, the voice asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Church of England?”

  “Yes, some, but also Methodists and Quakers.”

  “Okay.”, the door was opened fully and Walker entered, followed by the Pastor, the Salvation Army with all their instruments and, one by one, every other member of the party which numbered well over four hundred souls and which quickly filled the foyer and spilled out into the other parts of the building.

  “There’s too many of you.”, the receptionist shouted to them, but they seemed to ignore him and he had no other choice but to pick up the phone.

  The call he made triggered a series of other calls. He could barely hold the receiver in the confined space of the foyer that was now packed with bodies and, despite the smiling faces and the good-naturedness of the crowd before him, he felt a little threatened. Nobody listened as he tried to get them to leave. He’d said they could fill their water bottles. That’s all they were doing. He should have been more precise. Fortunately, more bodies began to flood into the building but these were welcome. Uniformed officers pushed their way through, carefully trying not to hurt any of the visitors, whilst seeking also to establish a way to clear the space. Behind the police came a number of television crews. The foyer of The Haven club had never been so full.