by Chris Ward
‘Look, Clayton,’ Vincent said, handing the magazine back. ‘I don’t give a fuck who they were. I want to know what we’re going to do about it.’
Clayton turned towards the younger man. Adam Vincent, while not quite fresh off the DCA boat was still classed as a junior officer. With his spiked, mullet hair, know-it-all swagger and disrespectful attitude, Clayton, who considered himself a tolerant person, had taken an instant dislike to the man directly beneath him in rank. His grizzled, pockmarked face was set, his eyes suddenly hard. ‘Don’t make me remind you of your rank, Vincent,’ he said.
For once, Vincent looked sheepish, his cheeks reddening. ‘I’m just, you know, saying that this talk isn’t doing us any good. We have to find them. Eliminate them.’
‘I’m aware of that.’
‘So what’s the plan of action?’
‘Let me speak to the Governor first.’
‘Is that wise?’ Vincent shook his head. ‘Do we even have time? If they have digital footage of that hit they’re capable of starting a goddamn war.’
Clayton nodded. ‘I know. But while we’re on government orders we have a duty to make a report.’ For a moment he felt a pang of fear. The thought of an audience with the Governor was something that could keep him awake at night. ‘We have to follow procedure, Vincent. Trying to clean up this mess without the Governor knowing could be the death of all of us.’ He sighed. ‘First though, let’s get that body down on to the tracks as planned.’
Chapter Ten
Revelation
Changing trains at the next station, the Tube Riders rode six stops out on the old District Line before dismounting at Kew Gardens, where the Underground still buzzed beneath the derelict national rail line above. No guard was on duty at the ticket gates and they duly went out into the daylight, happy just to be out of the tunnels. They sat down to rest on the abandoned platform of the national rail line. Above them the rain had given way to a hazy blue sky, and a light wind ruffled their hair.
Marta walked over to the tracks, listening to the sound of traffic on a nearby bridge while on either side of the station abandoned residential buildings watched her silently. She breathed deeply, trying to still her thudding heart, trying to think of a plan, a way to get them all out of this mess. She felt the others looking to her to lead them, but she didn’t know that she had the skills to keep them all safe. Now that they were on the run as fugitives, someone had to stand up and take responsibility.
But why her?
She didn’t need the answer, because she already knew it. There was no one else suitable. Switch was too unstable, Simon had Jess to look after, and Paul didn’t have the mettle for it.
She sighed again, feeling that familiar lump in her throat that threatened to bring tears. Her parents had tried to look after her, and they would want her to be strong. ‘For you, Mum, Dad,’ she whispered. She reached up and tugged at two braids of her hair, as if the motion would balance out her thoughts.
A few feet away, Paul had taken off his t-shirt and was ripping it up into strips to make a bandage for Switch’s knife wound. It wasn’t more than skin deep but they would need antibiotics to prevent infection, and antibiotics were hard to find.
Behind her, Simon was comforting Jess. The girl was struggling to come to terms with what they had seen. Brought up in a little more comfort than the rest of them, violence and murder weren’t close friends like they were for Marta or Switch. Marta felt an uneasy sense of guilt, though she knew that should rest with Simon. After all, he had brought Jess to meet them. But they had all brought people from time to time, in the hope of increasing their numbers, building their community. Most recently Paul had brought Dan. She wondered where Dan was now, and figured she probably wouldn’t want to know.
‘You don’t understand!’ she heard Jess gasp through sobs. ‘You don’t get it, Simon! They’re going to come after us!’
‘Just calm down,’ Simon told her. ‘It’s over now, we’ve got away. No one, not the Cross Jumpers nor those men in the tunnel are going to find us now.’
‘You don’t understand! I know who he was!’
‘Who?’
‘The man they killed. The man who they shot. I know who he was . . .’ Jess buried her face in her sleeve. Simon tried to hug her to him but she pushed him away. ‘They’re going to come after us now,’ she cried, her voice muffled.
Marta went over to them and crouched down beside Jessica. ‘Who was it, Jess?’
‘Don’t worry about her, she’s just taking it hard –’
‘The Ambassador. The Ambassador from the European Confederation.’
Marta felt a knot in her stomach and her neck prickled.
Jess looked up. Her eyes were red and her face was flushed and swollen. ‘I know because my dad told me. He works for the government. He showed me the story in the newspaper, and said the Ambassador was coming to Mega Britain to discuss the reopening of trade routes. Dad said there was a chance Mega Britain would open up again to Europe, and these talks were the key.’ The modicum of control in her voice vanished. ‘And now he’s dead. They’ve killed him!’
‘Are you sure? Why?’
‘I don’t know. What I do know is that we saw him die. They’re going to come after us now!’
Paul had limped over. He was perhaps the only one of them who looked more exhausted than Marta felt. Switch was sitting down by the side of the platform, legs dangling over the edge. He didn’t look at them.
‘What’s she talking about?’ Paul said.
‘Jess says that we just witnessed the assassination of the European Confederation’s Ambassador.’
He looked shocked. ‘Wow. That’s unbelievable! Just think what might happen if we can get to the press!’ He pointed at the camera she held in her hands. ‘Did you get any photographs?’
Jess squeezed her eyes shut and turned away. Simon took the camera from her. ‘More than that,’ he said. ‘She had the video function running. She recorded the whole thing. It’s a bit difficult to see, but if you enhance the light on a computer you’ll be able to identify people.’
Paul looked like he wanted to ask to see it and then changed his mind. ‘I’ll take your word for it,’ he said, looking grim.
‘The press won’t be any good,’ Simon said. ‘The government owns all the newspapers.’
‘Then we distribute it in the underground.’
‘What would be the point? At best we’ll start an uprising and then the government will let out the Huntsmen to slaughter everyone.’ At mention of the Huntsmen, Marta noticed Switch’s head jerk up.
‘Or take it to Europe then. If we can get this video over to Europe, maybe the Confederation will intervene.’
Marta gave a bitter laugh. ‘And how do we do that?’ she said. ‘We can’t even get over the perimeter wall.’
Jess had managed to swallow down her sobs. She stood up. ‘How can we prove it’s real?’ she said. ‘It’s easy to doctor footage.’
‘A skilled technician could determine what’s fake and what’s not,’ Paul said. ‘I heard it’s easy if you know what to look for. Finding someone who could do it is the problem, though. Most people with that kind of skill work for the government.’
‘We’re dangerous to them,’ Jess said. ‘Which is why they’re going to come after us.’
‘Your father,’ Marta said. ‘Can he help us? Would he be on our side?’
Jess looked uncertain. ‘I don’t know what he does exactly, but he wants peace, I know that. And freedom. If we show him the footage, maybe he can help.’
‘Okay,’ Marta said. ‘We have a plan, then. First, we need to get Switch to a doctor. Afterwards, we’ll visit Jess’s father.’
‘What about the Cross Jumpers?’ Jess asked.
Marta gave a half smile. ‘I think all we have to do is keep one step ahead of them. They’re the least of our worries right now.’
As they picked up their things and headed off towards the station exit, she wondered just how much
she believed it.
Chapter Eleven
Hunted
Leland Clayton took the elevator up to the Governor’s suites on Parliament Tower’s 50th Floor. The tallest building in Mega Britain, it stuck up like a blunt pencil out of the Docklands landscape, the area around it cleared some years ago of neighbouring buildings and other geographical features. The old office tower, once known as One Canada Square, or Canary Wharf, no longer housed private companies. Now its sole function was as home to Mega Britain’s government. The old centre in Westminster was now derelict and abandoned, infested with squatters and fought over by gangs of homeless.
Clayton stepped out of the elevator and moved to the nearest window. In a ring perhaps half a mile wide all around Parliament Tower were the most beautiful landscaped gardens you could hope to see; a manufactured Eden of wide lawns and wooded groves, clear ponds and splashing fountains. He could see movement down there too, the deer that wandered wild, the occasional bird moving from tree to tree.
Then around it was the guard wall with its constant patrols and anti-aircraft gun placements. He could see the gate he had entered by, a huge medieval-styled portcullis, inside which was an x-ray checkpoint and almost a whole garrison of security personnel. He had been subjected to far more rigorous checks than usual, a sign of the Governor’s growing paranoia.
Clayton sighed. He had his job and his work, but sometimes he wished for the old days too. Beyond the Parliament Tower enclosure he could see London GUA stretching away, a grey, poverty-stricken wilderness where murder, rape, arson and violence were everyday occurrences. Even from here he could see the smoke and flames of numerous fires, and the flickering red lights of the few police cars which still had them working.
To the east, where the edge of the city was closest, he could see the main perimeter wall, rising a hundred and fifty feet into the air. He’d been through it on several occasions, out into the GFAs where there was almost no crime, and little of anything else beside overfed farming communities and holiday homes for those city folk rich enough to afford a permit. The world was the vision of the Governor, a man of unknown age who had been in power as long as Clayton could remember; too long if he were honest with himself. Once, it had seemed to work: the segregation of communities and regions serving to focus people’s energy and creative abilities. The country had briefly prospered, but now things were falling apart as people began to understand just how much the government had stolen from them. These days, there were rumours of rebellion even out in the GFAs, as the people demanded back their lost toys: television, internet, magazines, free-speech newspapers. The Governor’s iron hand controlled everything and the threat of the Huntsmen was still enough to enforce his laws. But his hold was failing. Even Leland Clayton, who had spilt blood in the Governor’s name more times than he cared to remember, sometimes wondered if things wouldn’t be better if someone put a knife in the old man’s back.
He thought about the Ambassador. He hadn’t wanted to kill the man nor witness the brutality he had allowed his men to dish out before the bullet finished him. The man had come with honourable intentions and the order to stage his murder as an example of the problems faced by the Mega Britain government had struck Clayton as borderline madness. It had been an order, though, and Clayton always followed orders. Many men who’d started in the DCA alongside him were gone now. Clayton was still alive because he did what was asked of him without question. He might not like the order, but he certainly enjoyed being alive.
He went through into the Governor’s Secretarial Office. There were several office staff inside, writing reports, making phone calls. As always when he got this far his hands started to shake, and he felt a lump in his throat.
He went over to the desk nearest to a pair of closed double doors.
‘Madeline, is the Governor free to see me now?’
The woman behind the desk was maybe fifty, with grey streaks in her hair and glasses perched on her thin nose. Her eyes looked up over the rims, grey with hard-earned experience. He wondered how she could stand it, how she could work in the presence of such a man on a daily basis. He guessed that with time you could become desensitized to anything.
‘He’s expecting you, Mr. Clayton. Please go through.’
‘Thanks.’
He pushed through the doors. Behind them was a long corridor with another door at the far end. A thin, grey carpet led him towards it. There were no windows, but on either side were framed photographs or portraits of every British Prime Minister going back to colonial times. As he walked towards the far door he saw many names he recognised: Disraeli, Churchill, Wilson, Thatcher, Blair, Michaels . . . the only one missing was the current Governor.
Some had reputations that outlasted them, while others were remembered for their failures. In life they were all different but here they all shared a common, bizarre theme.
Every single picture was hung upside down. As he walked, an army of chins followed him, while upside-down eyes stared up at the ceiling.
Clayton knew the Governor had been making a point. That everything that came before was beneath what stood now. Whether he agreed or not, Clayton wouldn’t pass comment to anyone. There were too many ears, always listening.
At the end of the corridor two guards wearing black and green checkered uniforms stood on either side of the door. Their heads were shaven clean and each had a thin pointed beard. Their eyes watched him as he approached; his own searched their clothing for the bumps that gave away hidden weapons. They were elite, he knew; he wouldn’t know about their weapons until he was dead. Even a raging Huntsman would have difficulty defeating a pair of the Governor’s Personal Guard.
‘I’m here to see the Governor,’ he said to them as he approached, but it was of no consequence; neither moved nor made any sign of acknowledgement. The Governor had kept some traditions of the old life, then. Before the internet was banned, Clayton had seen a video of Buckingham Palace before it had been burned and razed; he wished he’d had a chance to watch the guards change like so many people once had in the old days.
He paused a moment, then reached out and pushed through the door, half expecting one to reach out suddenly and take hold of his wrist. But nothing happened. They stayed in their positions, as still as the dead.
The door opened on to a darkened lobby. A dim standing lamp on a table in the corner was all that lit the room. Clayton could smell the soft aroma of jasmine incense, while through a door standing ajar into another room floated the delicate piano sound of lounge jazz.
‘Sir?’ Clayton took a few steps towards the inner room. Around him, framed art classics hung from the black walls, Cezanne, Monet, Picasso; each illuminated by their own individual spotlight.
‘In here,’ rumbled a voice as dark as chocolate. Clayton went through the door into a plush room, part office, part lounge. Thick black leather sofas made a circle around a lacquered coffee table, while along the sides of the room deep bookshelves held a huge personal library. The entire south side of the room was a single enormous tinted window, revealing the world outside in a shade of sepia.
Maxim Cale, the Governor of Mega Britain, was standing by the window. He wore a black suit, and was gazing out of the window towards the crumbling remains of London city centre.
The man didn’t turn. ‘Thank you for coming,’ he said.
Clayton moved a few tentative steps closer.
‘I understand there was . . . a problem.’
Clayton’s hands were shaking. He held them in front of him, the left holding on to the right, trying to steady himself. The Governor invoked fear in everyone he looked upon. Just being in his presence was bad enough; Clayton dreaded the moment when the man would turn around.
‘We did as was ordered, sir. The Ambassador has been . . . martyred, and his death . . . rearranged as an act of revolutionary terrorism.’
‘You were ordered to do it with utmost secrecy.’
Clayton had gutted children in front of their parents without bre
aking a sweat, but now his lower lip trembled. ‘What happened could not have been anticipated, sir. To be disturbed by those . . . kids, was something that –’
‘– has put us under threat of war, of invasion. Is that what you want for our country, Mr. Clayton?’
The Governor turned from the window, and Clayton swallowed down the fear he always felt when looking on that terrible face.
The Governor was of African origin: thick lips, strong skin, big eyes and tightly curled hair cropped short. What set him apart was his albinism, so extreme as to leave his skin as white as sun-dried bone. Whether natural or engineered, Clayton didn’t know, but in the centre of that face, eyes the deep crimson of fresh wounds stared out.
The day he had first met the Governor, while still a junior official, he was sick in a washroom afterwards and woke up that night with his face caked with the salt of dried tears, his bed soaked with sweat. And it hadn’t improved as time went on; he still had nightmares about this man, even though he’d been among the highest ranks of the Department of Civil Affairs for more than a decade. The Governor, the man who controlled everything from behind a façade of democracy, was a fearsome man. You didn’t disappoint him, and you didn’t cross him.
‘No . . . of course not,’ Clayton stammered in response to the Governor’s question. ‘It was due to unforeseen circumstances. But I assure you, our best people are on the streets now.’
‘Your first officer – Mr. Vincent – called my office earlier. He said these kids are famous on the streets. That they were part of some gang?’
Clayton groaned inwardly. It was typical of Vincent to step in ahead of him with the Governor. Vincent ranked below him and was constantly fishing for promotion; if Clayton had his way, people would be fishing for him – in the Thames.
‘Well, it appears so,’ Clayton muttered. ‘We saw how they escaped. They hung from the side of the train as it went into the tunnel. We believe that these kids or others of their kind are behind the rumours of the, um, Tube Riders.’