Body Politic

by Paul Johnston

  Adam Kirkwood’s flat conformed to the Housing Directorate’s standard plan. In other words, it was a soulless dump. There was a square living room with the minuscule kitchen in a partitioned alcove, a bedroom off to the left and a toilet without shower or bath in the far corner. It contained the usual furniture; table, two stick-legged chairs, a sofa that looked like an elephant had been trampolining on it, a desk, uneven bookshelves and, to my relief, no body.

  Katharine K. remained in the doorway till I beckoned, then came forward into the main room. “He’s not here.”

  She breathed out slowly and turned to me. “Your turn for a test.” She gave me a smile that was about as encouraging as the thumbs-down to a stricken gladiator. “I heard from one of the girls at work that you find missing people. Convince me you’ve got what it takes, citizen.”

  “Call me Quint.” I’ve had to get used to clients who think investigators are magicians. Sometimes I refuse to perform, but not when they’re female and have her looks. “You want a demonstration?” I scrutinised her, taking my time. I enjoyed it more than she did. “So, you work as a chambermaid at the Independence Hotel, you live in William Street, you’re left-handed, you burned yourself with an iron five, maybe six days ago and you spend a lot of your free time in the staff gym.”

  She wasn’t impressed. “Come on, all that’s obvious from my appearance. And everyone knows where Indie staff live.”

  I shrugged. “I haven’t finished. You have an unusually close relationship with your brother, your parents are dead, you used to be an auxiliary and you have a dissidence conviction.” I gave her my best smile. “Also, you like Chinese poetry.”

  She glanced at the tattered book that was protruding from her bag. “Very observant. But most of that is just guesswork.” She didn’t sound quite as sceptical.

  “You reckon?” I don’t usually reveal how my mind works and a lot of what I’d said was just supposition, but I wanted her to think I was as sharp as they come. Maybe I was trying to convince myself too. “I saw your handwriting, remember? Only someone who doesn’t care what people think would write a note to a stranger without using copperplate. And you aren’t in a hurry to get off to evening classes either. Demoted auxiliaries like us aren’t allowed to attend classes in case we have a bad influence on the others.”

  Katharine K. nodded. “You were one too. I was beginning to wonder. Don’t tell me – Public Order Directorate?”

  I raised my hands in surrender. The way she had shifted the discussion from her past to mine was impressive.

  “Guardsman?” she asked acidly.

  “Not exactly.” I went over to the kitchen. It was tidy, a cup and plate on the draining-board. “Do I get the job, then?”

  “I suppose so.” She was right behind me, looking at the crockery, then touching the cup carefully as if she were trying to re-establish contact with her brother. “How do I pay you?”

  “No cure, no pay. If I find your brother, it’s up to you what you give me. None of my clients has much to spare after buying the week’s food and electricity vouchers. I often get whatever they can lay their hands on at work. I had half a pound of coffee last month.”

  “Riches indeed.” She finally took her fingers away from the cup. “Why do you do it?”

  I’ve never been too sure of the answer to that question myself. “It’s a way of staying alive.” I moved over to the sofa. “You’d better tell me something about your brother.”

  Katharine K. sat down beside me and took a piece of hotel notepaper from her book of poetry.

  “Adam Peter Kirkwood,” I read. “Status – citizen. Born 3.12.1995, height six feet two inches, weight thirteen stone twelve pounds, hair dark brown, nose snub, teeth complete, distinguishing mark none, employment Roads Department, Transport Directorate, address 3 Lennox Street Lane, next of kin Katharine Kirkwood (sister).” I nodded. “That’ll do for a start. I don’t suppose you’ve got a photo?” The Council has strictly controlled the taking of photographs, seeing them as a major element in the cult of the individual that had helped to destroy the United Kingdom.

  She showed me a small, blurred copy of a handsome young man who was looking straight into the camera with the hint of a mocking smile on his lips. “Just this, I’m afraid.” The only way people can get pictures of their loved ones is by sneaking photocopies of ID cards.

  “I’ll track down his file and see what it says. If it’s been brought up to date.”

  “Can you do that?” She was staring at me. “I thought citizens’ files were classified.”

  “Depends who you know.” That line usually provokes admiration, but Katharine Kirkwood just looked puzzled. “He’s twenty-four, so obviously he’s done his year on the border.”

  “Finished it three years ago.”

  “And you last saw him when exactly?”

  “Tuesday before last, 10 March. I came round here. I often do.”

  I looked around the small room, keeping to myself the fact that over the last three months I’d had half a dozen cases of missing young people. I hadn’t found any of them. “Anything different? Anything been taken?”

  She got up and walked about, picking up and laying down objects that were clearly familiar to her. She went into the bedroom and re-emerged after a couple of minutes. “Everything’s as it always is. Adam’s very neat.”

  “Is there anything you haven’t told me, Katharine?”

  She looked like she was going to object to my use of her first name, but nothing came of it.

  “I need to know. If it turns out he’s part of some dissident cell, I’d prefer to be told before they start using me as a punchbag.”

  She shook her head. “No, he’s not a rebel. You can be sure of that.” She raised her hand to her forehead. “What worries me most is how he was the last time I saw him. Kind of nervous – not frightened exactly, but excited, as if something important was about to happen. I’ve never seen him like that before. He wouldn’t tell me about it. Said it was secret.”

  I didn’t like the sound of that and went into the bedroom to conceal my expression. If Adam Kirkwood was into something classified, I’d be giving myself a headache for nothing. Still, maybe she was worth it.

  Where he slept was unusually tidy, more like a barracks than a private room. The deal wardrobe contained labourer’s fatigues like mine and the few casual shirts and trousers that the average citizen possesses. A pair of size twelve running shoes took up one corner. When you look round a place you normally form an impression of the person who lives there. Not in Adam Kirkwood’s case. I felt like an archaeologist breathlessly opening a golden sarcophagus to find nothing but dust and moth-eaten shrouds.

  Back in the main room I continued snooping around, aware of Katharine’s eyes on me.

  “How are you going to track him down?” she asked.

  I sat down on the sofa beside her. “I’ll check the archives first. I know my way around there. I’ve got contacts in other places too – the Misdemeanours Department, the Labour Directorate – to see if he’s been drafted into the mines or on to one of the city farms” – I skipped the hospitals, where unidentified bodies turn up more often than you might expect in a city whose population is carefully monitored – “the Deserters’ Register. Did your brother ever talk about crossing the border illegally?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “That’s what the guard asked too. Adam isn’t a deserter any more than I am. I don’t like the Council but Edinburgh’s safer than all the other cities. Neither of us wants to leave.” She moved her hand to her eyes quickly. “It’s my fault. I influenced him. He could easily have become an auxiliary. It was because of me that he didn’t. He let his work at college go, failed all his exams and ended up as a labourer.” She looked over at me. “Sorry . . .”

  “Don’t worry, I’m not proud. You haven’t told me why you were demoted.”

  Her eyes opened wide and glinted shafts of ice. “That’s got nothing to do with this. What about you? Why did they kick y
ou out?” She looked down.

  “Why do I have the feeling that I’ve suddenly grown jackass’s ears?” I waited for her to raise her eyes again but she didn’t oblige. “Forget it. I’ll have to trust you.”

  “How kind.” She smiled bitterly then stood up. “I’ve got the night shift. When will you know something?”

  I moved over to the bookshelves. “In a couple of days. I live in Gilmore Place, number 13. Come round about eight in the evening.” I pulled out the book that had attracted my attention. It was the same edition of Chinese poetry translations Katharine had in her bag. Between pages twenty and twenty-one I came across a single foreign banknote. I kept my back to her. “Any idea why your brother would have secreted fifty thousand drachmae in his copy of this?”

  She was at my side instantly, staring at the garish pink bill. “I haven’t the faintest idea,” she said, her voice fainter than it was hoarse. “What’s it worth?”

  “More than you or I will earn this month. But where did he get it? You know it’s illegal for Edinburgh citizens to have foreign currency.”

  Katharine shook her head in what looked like bewilderment. I was almost sure she knew nothing about this part of her brother’s life but you never know – she could have been the most accomplished actress in the city. Glancing at her profile, I made another discovery. The line of her nose was exactly the same as Caro’s. I thought I’d got over seeing aspects of her in other women. This case was already full of surprises.

  I wheeled my bicycle back to Gilmore Place. It was dark now and the fog was even thicker than before, but City Guard vehicles were still careering about like decrepit maroon dodgems. My watch had finally succumbed to the soakings it got every day in the city’s parks so I didn’t have much idea of the time. Fortunately curfew wasn’t imminent. Then I remembered the sex session. All citizens have to attend a weekly session with a partner allocated to them by the Recreation Directorate. The Council claims we get a more stimulating sex life, but everyone knows it’s just another way of keeping an eye on us. At least it was a home fixture this time. A month ago I ended up stranded for the night at a crazy woman’s flat in Morningside. She got her money’s worth. Thank Christ the regulations forbid further encounters between partners of my status.

  Back in my place I sank into the sofa, which was even more hamstrung than the one at Adam Kirkwood’s. My room, a testament to Housing Directorate grot, was so similar I almost thought I was back at his. The only difference was that I had a lot more books. One of the few Council decisions I completely go along with is the banning of television. As a result Edinburgh citizens are seriously well read and cheap copies of most kinds of books are available. Nothing too subversive, of course, and writing in any Scots dialect is right out. I’ve forgotten all the dirty bits from Irvine Welsh books I memorised when I was a kid. But the worst thing the idiots in power have done is to ban the blues, though they had their reasons. My collection of recordings is hidden under a tartan rug with my guitar case on top. I listen to them with my head against my moth-eaten speaker, straining to hear and hoping the neighbours won’t report me. What a thrill.

  The street door three floors below banged open and heavy, ringing steps sounded on the stairs. Only the City Guard and citizens working in the mines are issued with nailed boots. Either I was about to have sex with a large female miner or someone in number 13 was in trouble.

  I should have known that someone was me. My door took a pounding before I could get to it.

  “Citizen Dalrymple?” The auxiliary was tall and barrel-chested, the kind of guy who gets picked first in playground team games. His black hair was longer than mine and the regulation beard thick on his face. “I’m Hume 253.” He handed me an envelope bearing the seal of the Council. “This is for you.”

  I opened it, expecting one of the public order guardian’s regular warnings to keep my nose out of his directorate’s business. Instead I read: “CONFIDENTIAL: Murderer codenamed Ear, Nose and Throat Man appears to have resumed his activities. Accompany Hume 253 to Council meeting.”

  I was having trouble standing up, let alone concealing my shock from the guardsman.

  “Are you coming, citizen?” the guardsman asked with an unusually patient smile.

  I followed him out. Halfway down the stairs we passed a middle-aged female citizen with tired eyes and a soft, sad face. I wished I could have spent some time with her, but she was better off without me.

  “I hear there’s been a murder,” Hume 253 said in a low voice. He must have been in his late twenties and on the surface he looked like a typical muscle-bound guardsman, but his enthusiasm was surprising. The average auxiliary these days displays about as much emotion as the tarts who service the tourists in the city’s hotels. “What do you know, citizen?” he asked.

  “Nothing,” I lied as I climbed into the battered Land-Rover.

  “The first killing in the city for five years,” the guardsman said. It sounded like he approved. He let in the clutch and set off round the corner even faster than his kind normally drive.

  I hung on to the worn edges of the seat and wondered exactly what kind of birthday present I was about to be given.

  Chapter Two

  “I don’t want to die.”

  The fog had now reduced visibility to a couple of vehicle lengths. Only the knowledge that the disciplined citizens of Edinburgh wouldn’t be jaywalking enabled Hume 253 to head towards the Royal Mile at high speed. Fortunately there weren’t any tourists around Tollcross.

  “Don’t worry,” the guardsman said cheerfully. “I passed out top of my driving course.”

  “Great.” I blinked in the chill air that was whistling in through numerous holes in the bodywork. The best of the Land-Rovers were reserved for border patrols and farm protection. “What time is it?”

  “Coming up to seven,” Hume 253 said without taking his eyes off the road for more than a second. “The Council’s daily meeting has been brought forward an hour because of the killing. That shows you how seriously they’re taking it, doesn’t it, citizen?”

  “Call me Quint, will you?”

  He knew I was trying him out. “Use of first names is prohibited between auxiliaries and ordinary citizens. So is inducing a guardsman to break regulations.” He glanced at me, then laughed. “I seem to remember that my name’s Davie, Quint.”

  So I’d found a guardsman who wasn’t completely robotic. The more dedicated of them even address their barracks colleagues by number. “How long have you been in the Public Order Directorate, Davie?”

  “Seven years, ever since I finished auxiliary training. I like it. I’m going to stay in the guard. Not even six consecutive tours on the border put me off.”

  That sounded more like your typical guardsman. I was interested in his background, though. “Did you have anything to do with the last operations against the drug gangs?”

  He looked at me suspiciously. “How do you know about those?” Five years ago the Council sealed the border around what used to be Midlothian and laid into the remaining heavily armed criminals who had plagued the city since independence. Those guys were led by a ruthless bastard who called himself Howlin’ Wolf, after the blues singer. There was some evidence that the Ear, Nose and Throat Man was one of the gang. The high casualty rate among guard personnel had led the Information Directorate to suppress all the facts, despite the success of the mission.

  “You were involved, weren’t you?” I said, waiting for him to nod. “How do I know about the operations?” I wondered if I would manage to shock an auxiliary. “I ran them.”

  “Shit!” he gasped, taking his eyes off the road long enough to make me nervous. “You’re Bell 03.”

  The sound of my old barracks number was definitely not sweet music to my ears. “Used to be Bell 03,” I corrected.

  “They still talk about you in the directorate,” Davie said. He was more excited than any auxiliary I’d ever seen. “If it hadn’t been for you . . .”

  “Fewer peo
ple would have died,” I said, looking away. “That’s all in the past. I don’t want to talk about it.” I wished I hadn’t encouraged him. The stump of my forefinger was tingling and my gut felt like something with a sharp beak had just hatched in it.

  The Land-Rover turned sharply into Mound Place and I caught a glimpse of the city from the high point; the blaze of illumination through the fog in the tourist area at the centre was like a weird version of the northern lights, but the suburbs where the ordinary people live had been cast into the outer darkness.

  Davie pulled up outside the mock-Gothic façade of the Assembly Hall. The Church of Scotland used to hold its annual gathering here. It was typical of the Council’s desire to replace religion with its own philosophy that it chose this location rather than the former City Chambers or Parliament House. They probably had too many associations with democracy. Banners were draped around the blackened walls proclaiming the Council’s ideals; “Education, Employment and Health”, “Edinburgh – Independent and Proud” and “The City Provides”. Deep down I still felt some admiration for them. Then, beyond the flagpoles, I saw the memorial stones inscribed with the barracks numbers of auxiliaries who had died for the cause. Caro’s name survived only in my mind.

  “You all right?” The guardsman sounded strangely concerned. “Know your way?”

  “I’ve been before the Council often enough, my friend. Thanks for the lift.”

  “Don’t mention it. I’ll be waiting to take you back.” A grin split his face. “If they leave you in one piece.”

  I nodded wearily, remembering that Council meetings were more rigorous than City Guard physical training sessions, though at least they didn’t take place at half past five in the morning. Then I felt the envelope in my pocket. What the hell was it all about? I raced up the steps three at a time.

  Council members sat round a great horseshoe table in the main hall. I always used to find the setting a bit theatrical, but I could just remember the building’s use as a venue in the Festival before independence. I sat down between the ends of the horseshoe, suddenly very aware of my dirty fatigues in the bright lights that were directed at me. I screwed up my eyes and saw the guardians. Behind them was the large bust of Plato that was the only concession to art in the austere chamber.