State Sponsored Terror

by David Carter

  Those staring vacantly into space, even when their faces were a matter of centimetres from their neighbours, avoiding eye contact, staring over shoulders into the distance, as if gaping into a black hole.

  Those reading devices, heads down, totally immersed, maybe on their phone, or a bookreader, or some business device that would never be discarded.

  The third lot listened, eyes closed, probably to music, though some might be tuned in to audio. They seemed miles away too.

  The fourth group read newspapers, the newspaper, The Messenger.

  The Internet had killed the other morning newspapers stone dead. Sales had plummeted, publishers had gone bust, there wasn’t the demand for old-fashioned newspapers anymore, so the government was fond of saying, and only The Messenger remained, to enjoy their monopoly. Redtop, tabloid and fat, it sold over twenty million copies every day, and was Europe’s biggest selling daily newspaper, and Colin should know, because he was a staff reporter on the renowned and widely followed Business Section. In truth, it sounded rather grander than it was, at least that was the way he thought of it, but Colin Cornelius underestimated himself in many ways, he always had.

  The healthy sales graph The Messenger boasted contradicted government wisdom as to the viability of traditional newspapers, but that went pretty much unnoticed. The paper itself was overstaffed and over written, but no one seemed to care about that; not since the competition had been wiped out.

  The Messenger was owned by a shadowy company called Crifuel Holdings; a business Colin had tried on several occasions to trace the owners. He hadn’t succeeded, though he hadn’t given up hope in solving that particular puzzle. Rumours persisted that the government ultimately owned The Messenger, though no one could prove it. It was certainly never admitted in the public domain, and you could find yourself on the wrong end of an expensive lawsuit if you uttered such a preposterous idea in public.

  For the most part, the newspaper followed the government line, though occasionally there would be token jibes at authority, though even they were becoming fewer and farther between.

  The train bumped into Waterloo station and Colin stepped out on his ten-minute walk to the office. There seemed more glum faces about than usual, and he put it down to early morning blues. He smiled at an attractive young woman coming his way. She flashed him a filthy look, as if to say, What the hell are you after, old man? Pervert!

  He hurried away and began thinking of his luncheon appointment with his old friend Martin Reamse. Through the morning he thought of little else, until they eventually met up in the Black Horse at noon. Martin was, as he always was, unchanged, not a surplus ounce of fat on him, every hair trimmed and in place, his dark eyes bright and sparkly. How did he manage to do that, keep his eyes firing like diamonds? He looked so damned youthful too, he always did.

  The sandwiches on offer were tasteless cheese, the beer 1% alcohol. Stronger stuff was available, but not during the lunchtime session, and not there either, and especially not without an official Green Medicinal card, or a GET, a Government Exemption Ticket. Hacks and reporters like them certainly did not qualify. Martin downed his pint lustily, practically in one swoop, and nodded and shouted at Bernice behind the bar to set them up again. He was chasing the alcohol, and he would drink as much as it took to find it. Colin wondered how he kept his figure so trim when he drank so much.

  ‘Our Joss is up for the EWP,’ he said, trying to sound nonchalant.

  Martin was chewing his cheese sandwich with his mouth open, and the mangled bread and cheese was circling his gob like jock straps in a washing machine.

  ‘Oh yeah.’ It was obvious he didn’t really want to talk about it.

  ‘She’s a bit apprehensive,’ persisted Colin.

  ‘Yeah. I see,’ slurp, slurp, chew chew, slurp.

  ‘I don’t suppose you’d have any idea where she might be sent?’

  The slurping and chewing crashed to a standstill, as if Martin had frantically braked at a red light.

  ‘Look, Col, that would be classified information, as you well know, and even if I knew, which I don’t, I couldn’t possibly tell you. Jobsworth and all that. You must understand?’

  Colin nodded.

  ‘Sorry for asking, Mart, it’s just she’s so damned worried about it.’

  There was a silence as they gawped around the bar eyeing up the talent, though it was conspicuous by its absence.

  Colin looked back into Martin’s face, and Marty seemed miles away.

  ‘Actually,’ Martin whispered from the side of his trap, ‘I just might know something on that, a little snippet so to speak.’

  Colin edged closer, surprised at the turn of events.

  ‘Oh yeah. What exactly?’

  ‘Can’t tell you here, not now, and I’ll need to check out my facts, but I’ll tell you what I’ll do, I’ll trade information.’

  ‘About what?’ said a puzzled Colin.

  ‘What do you know about the Tinbergen Papers?’

  Colin flushed, and set his drink down in a hurry. ‘How do you know anything about that?’ he whispered through closed teeth.

  ‘Never mind that. What does it mean? What’s it all about?’

  ‘I can’t talk about that!’ said Colin decisively. ‘Not here, not now, not ever.’

  ‘Suit yourself.’

  Colin grimaced. ‘You are a hard bugger. Maybe I could do something.’

  ‘When and where? A trade’s a trade. You want. I want. Swopsy-swopsy. Fair trade all round. Come along, my old China.’

  Colin thought for a second. ‘You know Hengistbury Head?’

  ‘Course.’

  ‘I’ll meet you there on Saturday night at half seven. There’s a small hut on the west side on the top of the hill.’

  ‘I know it.’

  ‘I’ll see you there. Come alone, and wear a raincoat, the weather forecast is dreadful.’

  ‘You mustn’t breathe a word of this to anyone,’ said Martin.

  ‘You are telling me,’ said Colin, ‘you have no idea how dangerous this is.’

  They glanced guiltily around the bar. People everywhere were laughing and joking, without a care in the world. No one appeared to be paying them any attention, and no one appeared out of place, as if they were working, watching, and waiting.

  Colin was desperate to change the conversation, but Martin beat him to it.

  ‘See the King?’ he said.

  ‘Yeah, wouldn’t miss that. You?’

  ‘Yeah. He’s not a bad bloke.’

  ‘He’s a beacon!’ said Colin, and for no apparent reason they both collapsed in heaps of rowdy laughter. Colin bought more beer, the last before he would return to work.

  ‘There is one little titbit I’ve heard that will interest you,’ whispered Martin.

  ‘Oh aye?’

  ‘The Messenger might be getting a rival.’

  Colin looked as if he’d been asked a dreadful question at the central court of the Old Bailey. He was searching for a credible reply, though it wouldn’t come. When he did speak he said disbelievingly, almost spitting out his drink, ‘Pfft! A rival? For the Messenger? Another morning paper? You have to be kidding! Bah! Baloney! No chance. No way!’

  ‘I kid you not, sir.’

  ‘Where did you get that tosh from?’

  ‘It went round over the holiday. Don’t know where it came from, exactly, but it seems it came down from the very top. The Leader thinks it’s a good idea apparently, a second mouthpiece, if you will.’

  Colin remained ultra sceptical.

  ‘No one’s said anything at work. Not a dicky.’

  ‘Doesn’t mean it isn’t true.’

  ‘God, if it were true there’d be murder, there is so much wastage and over capacity, you just would not believe.’

  ‘Perhaps that’s what the Leader is after, a slimming down exercise, get you fit and lean and hungry. I’d be careful if I were you. Look, I’ll have to go. I’ll see ya on Saturday.’

  ‘Yeah,�
�� muttered Colin as they hurriedly shook hands, before Martin turned and headed for the door.

  Colin stayed another ten minutes and finished his drink, alone with his thoughts. Martin had given him plenty to think about. A rival newspaper indeed, and he was still thinking about that as he made his way back to the office, the God-awful cheese already going to work on his delicate stomach. He kept thinking of the seven words that Marty had left him with. They seemed to reverb around his head as if stuck in a loop.

  I’d be careful if I were you.

  I’d be careful if I were you.

  I’d be careful if I were you.

  What the hell did he mean by that?

  Seven

  Earlier that day, Elizabeth had risen early to share breakfast with Martin, before seeing him off to work. Then she began work herself, slaving over the laptop that now dominated her working day. Adam slept in, for he hadn’t settled to sleep until well into the small hours. It was almost ten before he staggered from the bedroom, his hair like a bowl of dead weeds, as he headed for the bathroom.

  ‘Morning sleepy head,’ he heard her call after him, as he closed the bathroom door.

  ‘Yeah, whatever.’

  When he came out he saw she was sitting at the desk, wearing a white silk dressing gown, and cork flip-flops.

  ‘Help yourself to cereals, and toast too if you want it, you’ll have to do it yourself, I’m busy.’

  ‘Has the man gone?’ Adam muttered as he headed past her for the kitchen.

  ‘The man has gone,’ she confirmed, twitching her nose. ‘Your clothes need washing, you stink, that’s not allowed. After breakfast, you can take them off and chuck them in the washer.’

  ‘I ain’t got anything else.’

  ‘I’ll give you something of Martin’s.’

  ‘Oh great,’ he mumbled, settling down in front of the floor-to-ceiling window before the balcony. From there, he could watch three kids far below in their wet suits, surfing on the new man made reef.

  ‘You don’t like him much, do you?’ she said.

  ‘Not much.’

  ‘Why not? He’s a good man.’

  ‘Let’s just say we got off to a bad start. He seemed to think I was a burglar, or something.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, no he didn’t.’

  ‘Well whatever. To change the subject for a minute, I have been thinking about this Tinbergen thing. The police, when they were interrogating my mother, if you can call it interrogation, said, and these were the guy’s exact words, so far as I remember: All you have to do is tell us where the Tinbergen Papers are. Mother replied: I have no idea what you are talking about, and I couldn’t tell from the tone of her voice whether she was telling the truth or not. I couldn’t tell if she even knew what the guy was talking about, but he sounded so certain she knew something. Either way, her refusal to give up any information cost her her life. Conclusion: they must be damned important. There are not many things worth giving up your life for, are there? Perhaps none at all.’

  ‘There are some things,’ Liz said, keeping her eyes on the screen.

  ‘Oh yeah! Like what?’

  ‘For love, freedom, for one’s country.’

  ‘Come on!’ he scoffed. ‘Love? You are having a laugh, right!’

  ‘That’s because you have never been in love, Adam. When you experience such a thing, when you know the power of love, when you understand how it completely takes over your life, your mind, your body, you might take a differing view. Don’t write off something you don’t fully understand.’

  Adam harrumphed, and levered another heaped spoonful of wheat flakes into his mouth.

  ‘Even if there is something out there that I don’t fully understand,’ he said dubiously, ‘I can’t think my mother was in love with someone, or something. She certainly never exhibited any sign of such a thing. And as far as freedom and one’s country are concerned, you really are taking the piss, right. Are you blind? The government curtails our freedoms left, right and centre, and civil liberties have all but vanished, so where is the freedom in that? There is nothing there worth fighting for, nothing worth giving up one’s life for. Not a bloody chance! No way!’

  ‘Please don’t swear, Adam.’

  ‘Sorry, but it would make a bishop swear.’

  ‘Perhaps you have put your finger on it right there,’ she said, as she stopped typing and swivelled to face him.

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Perhaps she is, or was, involved in some movement against the government.’

  Whether that thought had occurred to him before was not clear, but either way it provoked him into silence. Then he said quietly, ‘That could just be it you know, that might bloody well be it.’

  ‘Did she have much of a social life?’

  ‘No, that’s the strange thing. Not much of one at all. She didn’t drink or smoke, she wasn’t interested in politics at all, as far as I know, and rarely voted before they introduced this compulsory voting lark. She used to go to keep-fit, but packed that in. She was going to night school twice a week, but other than that, she stayed in and sewed and read and watched the telly.’

  ‘What was she studying?’

  ‘Eh? Oh, modern technology. She didn’t really know much about computers, but belatedly she was trying to get involved before she was left behind forever.’

  ‘Where did she study?’

  ‘Brock Coll. Half seven, Tuesdays and Thursdays.’

  ‘Didn’t you say that was where that anti censorship guy worked?’

  ‘Yeah I did, but he wouldn’t have had anything to do with novices like my mother. You can trust me on that. He hated beginners.’

  ‘Well if she was involved in anything, she must have become so somewhere, and that seems the obvious place to start looking.’

  He smiled attractively. ‘You’re right I guess, but I must be careful.’

  ‘We all have to be careful, Adam. My guess is that they are searching for you right now, and in that case, they could be searching for me too.’

  ‘God, I don’t mean to bring danger to your door.’

  Liz let out a carefree laugh. ‘I have asked Martin to see if he can find out anything about it. He works for the Beeb. If anyone can, he can.’

  ‘Oh jeez, can we trust him?’

  ‘Course we can. I’d trust him with my life.’

  But what about mine, thought Adam.

  Then he said, ‘Can I ask you something, Liz?’

  ‘You can, but it must be the last thing for now, I really must get on with my work.’

  ‘Can I stay here for a couple more days?’

  She didn’t hesitate. ‘Yes you can, Adam, on two conditions.’

  ‘Oh, here we go. And what are they?’

  ‘You must make every effort to like Martin. He is a good guy.’

  Adam grimaced. ‘Do I have to?’

  ‘You do, if you want to stay here.’

  ‘And number two?’

  ‘You take your clothes off, and take a shower, you really do stink! I can’t abide poor personal hygiene, and it is becoming so common these days. Filthy people in dirty unpressed clothes. There is no excuse for it. I’ll dig you out some fresh things.’

  ‘OK,’ he said, in that teenage way of his, ‘If I have to.’

  ‘You do,’ she said, turning back to her screen. ‘We’ll talk some more when Marty comes home.’

  ‘Great,’ he said, without enthusiasm.

  MARTIN ARRIVED HOME at twenty minutes past six. As before, Adam was sent to open the door. This time everything was different. The moment the door opened Martin rushed in and grabbed the kid and forced him back against the far wall. He didn’t notice the lad was wearing one of his best blue shirts.

  ‘What’s your game? You little bastard!’

  Liz, hearing Martin’s furious voice, came running from the kitchen.

  ‘What on earth is going on?’ she said, wiping her hands on the sides of her jeans. She closed the wide-open front door, just in time
to see Martin slap the side of Adam’s nose.

  ‘Ow! Get off me! You crazy maniac!’

  ‘Martin, what are you doing?’ screamed Liz.

  ‘I’ll tell you what I am doing!’ he yelled, pinning the squirming lad to the wall, as he glanced back over his shoulder at Liz. ‘I am trying to get to the truth.’

  He turned back to Adam and slapped him again.

  ‘Get off me, you bastard!’

  ‘Let him go,’ said Liz, ‘let’s talk about this sensibly.’

  ‘Sensibly is it? This little liar has come into your house spinning a pack of lies, hoping for God knows what, working for God knows who.’

  ‘I have told you the truth,’ bleated Adam.

  ‘You wouldn’t know the truth if it bit you on the arse! There was an incident in Brockenhurst, oh yes that’s true, but not one involving anyone called Rexington. So who the hell are you?’

  The kid breathed out heavily and shook his head.

  ‘My name is Adam Goodchild; the police came and murdered my mother, just like I said. I hate the name Goodchild, it’s wet, so sometimes I call myself Rexington. There was a tough kid at school with that name, so when he left, I kind of adopted it.’

  Martin relaxed his grip.

  ‘Oh yeah? So who do you work for, Adam? Who are your paymasters?’

  ‘I don’t work for anyone, honest I don’t, I am just trying to discover the truth, for my Ma’s sake. Look, I’ll leave now if you want, if you don’t believe me.’

  ‘No!’ said Liz, ‘You are not going anywhere, not until I am happy I know what is going on here.’

  Martin looked back at Liz and softly said: ‘The woman who was killed was called Goodchild. She was attempting to escape capture by the police; it was linked to an earlier incident up at Basingstoke, where terrorists were caught red-handed trying to blow up a train. The Bournemouth train as it happens. That’s what the official communiqué says.’

  ‘And you believe all that trash?’ said Adam, contemptuously. ‘My mother would get upset if she killed a daddy longlegs. Do you really think she was capable of slaughtering a random section of the general public? You must be more stupid than I thought! Get real, you dobber!’