The first floor was a place of jabbering telephone calls and whacking typewriters, heaping of files and confabs of dark grey suits. Donald wondered what all the frenzy was about. He had never seen anything like this at Wilson House. One sensed a certain fanaticism about typing everything up in a report for circulation, as if that proved it was right. They turned into a corridor with windows looking out into the black night—any gunman out there could turn the building into a shooting gallery. These Party people must feel exceedingly safe to allow the night to peer in at them like that. Up ahead, he spotted a familiar person with the chest of a horse and a bull’s neck. It was Valentin, the tough guy who had guarded the National Party office at Bloomsbury College. Donald waved to him. At the sight of Sarah-Kelly, he barged forward and bear-hugged her off her feet.
“Skay! Oh that’s brilliant, you’re safe!” He gripped Donald by the arm and shook his hand. “I congratulate you for getting Skay out of that slaughterhouse, Donald. Only five of us got out of that top floor alive. The rest were wiped out by those glory thugs, every last one of them. Come on, we’ve got to tell the president about this.”
With his arms around Donald and Sarah-Kelly, and trailed by an obviously peeved Kalchelik, Valentin budged through a nearby doorway into an office congested with desks and filing cabinets. A wall of uniformed backs met them. Someone beyond the wall was giving a briefing at an easel, of which Donald could only see the pinnacle of the three legs whilst recognising the voice of Theo Farkas. The wall of backs was composed of former glory officers, all wearing the tricolour armband. Valentin drew them both in close and said:
“We’ll have to wait; the president is giving a briefing to the Provisional Cabinet.”
Donald tuned in to the voice. Reconnaissance units were spreading around the Great Ring Drain and would be confirmed in position on all major junctions by morning. The ultras had left the turnpikes open to all, apparently as a goodwill gesture. Several units had run into convoys of sovereign vehicles fleeing the Central Enclave and there had been exchanges of fire. At least two National Army armoured cars had been knocked out, against which, three sovereign vehicles had been captured and were being returned to the Central Bank for deposit of precious items into the National Treasury. Scattered groups of sovereignite glory troops had been intercepted on the public drains with varying results. Here and here, the groups surrendered. There is an ongoing firefight here, with reinforcements on the way. Concerning the Grande Enceinte, all the forts were confirmed in National Army control. Mopping-up of sovereignite glory troops was ongoing, this operation being complicated by the mass movement of servants taking flight before rumours that mobs from the asylums would irrupt in the morning. To resolve the situation, fear-mongering and rubbishing were being thoroughly prevented by the National Police.
The challenges for the morrow centred on four prime tasks. One, communicating the total victory of the National Party to the people of the Republic. Bulletins were already being printed by ZEEBRI night shifts for morning distribution. Farkas would be touring all the industrial asylums with loud speaker units to announce the liberation of the people and declare their citizens’ rights. Two, secure the remaining strategic buildings in the Central Enclave, notably the mansions of the sovereigns in Mayfair, the Palace of Westminster and all glory trust headquarters. Three, establish good relations with the Ultramarine Guild. Communication was hindered by the Ultramarine Guild headquarters having been shuttered in anticipation of the aforementioned mob and all owners having disappeared. Four, establish adequate border forces around the Great Ring Drain, which would be the frontier of the Republic during the phase of consolidation. Next meeting at 7 am. Any questions?
The wall of backs dispersed from the office, a sense of space returned. Farkas looked shattered on his feet—completely exhausted, eyes glittering with fatigue. For all that, he attended to a queue of subordinates that had grown during the briefing. It was fully half an hour before Donald and Sarah-Kelly got their slot. By some unspoken consensus, most of the building had drifted off to bed by then; night quiet had finally come to the headquarters building at almost half past two in the morning.
Farkas waved the four of them in around his small, plain desk in the corner of the office. He smelled of sweat and cigarettes. After he had shaken the hands of the men and given Sarah-Kelly the statutory bear-hug, he lit up a cigarette, handing out his pack to Valentin, Kalchelik and Sarah-Kelly, while Donald declined.
Farkas looked at Donald with piercing force, whilst clasping his hands behind his head and blowing smoke at the ceiling.
“You’re an interesting catch. How much do you think Krossington will pay to get you back?”
“Nothing,” Donald said.
“Krossington paid good gold to get you back from Dasti-Jones—I saw that with my own eyes. He will pay again.”
“I think not. My wife is divorcing me. She’s from a manor in the Lands of Krossington, whereas I am but a commoner. TK has to shun me to demonstrate solidarity with his own Land Council. It’s all good, solid sovereign logic.”
“Ah!” Farkas hissed through his teeth. “Our National Police picked you up at Ladbroke fort—where were you going?”
“Here—Brent Cross. Sarah-Kelly has friends here.”
“And now you are here—Brent Cross—with Sarah-Kelly’s friends. You were close to Tom Krossington. You must know a great many secrets of his clan.”
“They’re staying in my head—discretion is my true sovereign.”
“You risk your life to protect Krossington’s privacy?”
“No. I stand on the basic principle of client confidentiality.”
Farkas rolled his eyes and hacked out a dry laugh. Wagging his finger at Donald, he billowed out smoke as he said:
“You are a man of principle—and that is an admirable thing to be—but you are also a man without friends. That’s not good at any time, but at a time like this, it’s downright fatal.”
“Friends have never got my anywhere, Farkas, not least because I don’t have any. My achievements rest on out-smarting the opposition—the Republic will have to do the same thing. Martial force isn’t much use when you’re surrounded by enemies bigger than you are, whereas a skilled mediator could achieve more than armies.”
This reasoning had a pronounced negative effect on the president. He tucked down his chin and scowled at Donald, then spun his chair to his desk and was pulling the cap off a pen when Sarah-Kelly spoke.
“He’s my friend; where he goes, so go I.”
“I’ll speak up for him too,” Valentin said. “He’s a brave man. If Banner had listened to him at Bloomsbury it would have saved scores of lives, Donald offered his own house as asylum for the wounded—and he fought back one against many. We would never have got out of Bloomsbury but for that fightback of yours.”
Farkas gazed at them in amazement. He picked some tobacco off his lips, staring at Donald with a whole new respect.
“You had a gun at the Bloomsbury Massacre?”
“Quite legally. I have a permit to bear arms within the Central Enclave; under the circumstances I had ample justifications for using it.”
Farkas buckled forward laughing.
“Counsel to the bitter end—shooting by the rules! And did you kill anyone?”
Donald knew this was the moment on which his fate tipped to life or it tipped to death. There was no way of avoiding the fact.
“I shot an account-captain first class. He murdered a helpless man right before my eyes. I have absolutely no regrets.”
Now Farkas got to his feet and ordered the other three to stand up.
“We must stand in the presence of a true hero. You shot one of the most notorious glory criminals known to the Party, no less than Julius Shellingfield, eldest son of Augustus Shellingfield. You will be pleased to hear it took him several hours to die.”
Donald managed to pull a rather sick grin.
“That’s wonderful news�
�now the Shellingfields want me dead too.”
Farkas slapped a form on the desk in front of Donald.
“It’s time you joined the Party. We need people like you—highly educated in legal matters, familiar with the sovereign lands, above all a man of principle who is not afraid to use violence. That’s what makes you different from the bourgeois rabbits of the Central Enclave.”
“I’m not a true believer in Banner’s vision…” He did not know how to address Farkas. ‘President Farkas’ seemed pompous. “The vision that we all sleep on the Bed of Procrustes offering our dreams to the great god-state is flawed. It won’t work.”
Farkas waved that away, scattering ash off his cigarette.
“We’re pragmatists, not dogmatists. We’re building a better society, one with democracy, legal tender, a central bank, the rule of law without exceptions, good jobs for those who can work, hospitals and homes for those who cannot. Only the Republic of the New Nation is sovereign now.”
Donald leaned forward and completed the form. He had to ask for his passport back from Kalchelik to get its issue number. When he slid the completed form across the desk to Farkas, they all welcomed him in with applause.
“Remember your Party number. It’s 187345. You’ll need it to get your new citizen’s papers in the morning from the Banner Hall downstairs. Do you know that since Saturday evening the Party’s membership has increased by more than eighty thousand? Banner once told me that back in the seventies, it took him two years to get the first hundred members. At that time, it was virtually a capital offence to join a radical party. Now it’s a safety feature.”
“Maybe. You’ve… We’ve a hell of a long way to go,” Donald said. “The Republic is surrounded by sovereign lands well-garrisoned with glory troops. They’ve got Naclaski batteries—”
“No rubbishing!,” Farkas snapped. His eyes gleamed with anger again. “Express only the strengths of our new republic! The Naclaski batteries of the Grande Enceinte can hurl back far more than anything those sovereigns can throw at us. We’ve got the factories that make the ammunition and propellent. We can refurbish machinery. The ultras will help us with their magnificent armoured cars—each one has a Long 75 with a range of five miles. We’ve got the nerve centre of the barging industry at North Kensington basin. And…” He wagged his finger at Donald again. “And we’ve got something more powerful than all the guns and glory troopers put together; the promise of a better life for everyone. We’re going to win, Donald! Remember that and never hint otherwise.”
In other words, the only safe mouth is a shut mouth. Donald shut up.
“I’m going to bed,” Farkas said, yawning immensely. “Do you have a place to stay?”
“We’ll stay with a friend of mine,” Sarah-Kelly said.
“I was just going to lock the building, Mr President” An officer of the National Army was leaning in the doorway. “But I can leave it a bit if you need time.”
“No chance, I’m grabbing some kip.” To Donald, Farkas said, “Join me at 7 am tomorrow for morning briefing, we’ll discuss your future and I’ll get a bodyguard organised for you. We’re not going to let sovreignite vandals massacre the Party again.”
Donald found the room spinning when he stood up, probably due to fatigue and cigarette smoke. It was like being the last to leave a party as they descended through the quiet building under the eyes of an abundant night guard—truly, the Party was taking no chances. Kalchelik excused himself and made a hasty foray, rejoining them as the officer in charge of the guard was letting them out of the building. They all said good night to the president. He got into one of the fish-like sheet metal motor cars and off it roared across the market place surrounded by motorcycles and armoured cars. Kalchelik passed Donald a folded sheet of paper.
“I think this might interest you. Please don’t read it now. I’d be grateful to get it back in the morning, thanks.”
Donald put the folded sheet away, conscious of making an easy target silhouetted against the security lights of the headquarters.
“You can stay in my family’s compound,” Kalchelik said, to both Donald and Sarah-Kelly. “We’ve a spare house for visitors.”
“You are a duck, Andrew, actually we’re staying at Theresa’s.”
“The Hutch?”
“It’s cosy.”
“Well, see you in a few hours then,” he said, pulling up his collar and limping off into the darkness. Donald ushered Sarah-Kelly into motion. Arm in arm, they walked across the dark market square. It was far from deserted. They passed people sleeping under wagons and tethered donkeys dozing on their feet. From the market stalls came the sounds of pigs getting pushed about ready for slaughter. Amidst political chaos, life went on.
“What sort of guy is Kalchelik?”
“Dead sound,” Sarah-Kelly said. “I’ve found him to be absolutely straight, even if he comes across as a bit creepy to begin with.”
Sarah-Kelly steered him into a lane and this way and that through a chaotic maze of passages and little squares. After passing the same water pump several times, she found Theresa’s house and managed to draw a response without too much grumbling from the neighbours. The house was larger inside than it appeared on the outside, although it was still little more than a cottage with a brick floor. The beamed ceiling was too low for Donald’s height unless he was careful to stand between beams. The downstairs was a single room, with a ladder providing access through a hatch to ‘upstairs’. Theresa’s eyes goggled wide in open admiration at being introduced to Donald.
“So this is the new man? Very classy—you’ve done well, duck.”
She gave Donald an enormous hug and a mischievous grin. He made a mental note never to be caught alone with her. Whilst Theresa pummelled Sarah-Kelly with questions about how she had spent the weekend—her mischievous eyes flitting to Donald as she probed away—he found a quiet end of the sofa with a candle to read by and opened the sheet Kalchelik had given him.
It was a standard form used to take down witness statements for the Atrocity Commission. It had been written by the witness on his own volition and signed by one Leading Basic Garrington two days previously. This is what the statement said:
“In late October 2104 I left basic training in the Enclave of Manchester with orders to join the Oban garrison, which I did after a voyage from Liverpool in which I suffered from seasickness. I reported to Oban HQ and got told I was assigned to patrol barges. I explained about getting sea-sickness, they said that would pass after a few days at sea and I had to do it. I reported aboard patrol barge Oban-Charlie and I met my new commander Grade Lieutenant First Class Lawrence M. Aldingford, who was most welcoming, he introduced me to the crew and never gave me any reason to suspect nothing. He said he was absolutely confident in my abilities. I found the crew to be welcoming and supportive too and I felt I’d made a good landing. I did ask about interceptions. Everyone said ‘brushes’ as they called them were rare, especially at this time of the year, and they brought the catch back to town to be shipped out to Glasgow.
“We were at sea just over a week. The weather was good, I had no problems with sea-sickness. I got some practice with the brass-muncher four-barrelled gun (properly called ‘Marine Quadruple Mount No. 3’) firing at driftwood. The marine version has a levelling system to make it easier to fire from a rolling ship. It’s a bit complicated, so I got some training in how to maintain it. The days passed very pleasantly I must say.
“On Day 8 my life changed forever. The lookout spotted a raft. It took us a while to tack to it as it was upwind from us. I got to borrow some binoculars so I could see it was made of logs dug out and fixed together with beams in a triangle shape. It must have taken a bit of effort to make. I estimated there were two dozen on it, mostly females and kids, I only saw four men. Aldingford came up to me and said he wanted me in the brass-muncher—it was an order really. He said it very nicely as if he was asking a favour, so I got in the turret and set all the gu
ns. We were not quite close enough to make out faces when he told me to open fire. Quietly and matter of fact. I didn’t believe my ears, so I did nothing. Then the coxswain spoke me really rough, telling me if I didn’t fire I’d be hanged for murder back in Oban. The crew was closing in on me, it was terrifying. I really believed they would kill me if I didn’t do it, so I did it. I opened fire on those poor helpless people and I’m never going to be able to forgive myself as long as I live. It’s ruined my life. I wish I’d died out there instead. It would have been a man’s death at least.
“After that the crew were really matey again, getting me drunk at a party they held for me, three cheers and bottoms up and all that. I decided to play along with it, all the while praying we didn’t have any more brushes, because I couldn’t have stood it. Fortunately we got back and that night I stowed away on a ship. I won’t say nothing about my journey back home. It was hard surviving the public drains. There are good people in this world and I got home—that’s all I’ll say. I’ve had to live in hiding ever since, as I’d get fogged for desertion if they caught me.
“I affirm the above statement is the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help me God.”
Donald folded the sheet and stuffed it back in his jacket pocket, causing a scratching noise like a mouse due to his shaking hands. A cold, sick nausea gripped him. The only other occasion he had felt this anguish was after Father told him about the glioblastoma. As recently as a week ago, Donald would have thrown the statement away as an outrageous calumny. Since then, he had seen and heard a great deal.
He still refused to believe it.
Chapter 20
Donald’s first action as minister for trade for the Republic of the New Nation was to request Lawrence’s personnel file be sent up from General Wardian HQ in the Central Enclave. He also sought the file of Leading Basic Garrington. It felt good to boss glory bureaucrats about after they had shown such disdain for his approaches in the past. The files would be on his desk by late morning.
Sovereigns of the Collapse Book 1 Page 25