by David Carter
‘Does the hundred and eighty day sentence still apply?’
Jason grinned. ‘What do you think, pal? Get real. The first thing you need to do is understand the seriousness of your situation. Until you do that, you will be going nowhere, ever. Not ever.’
‘I’m confused.’
‘Once your final assessment has been carried out you will be advised of the decision, and of its ramifications.’
‘Sounds serious.’
‘It is serious. But that depends on what you have been up to, my friend, and what information you have been withholding.’
‘I am not withholding a bloody thing.’
Jason shook his head. ‘That is not a bright line to take, trust me on that. You have to start thinking of yourself. You have to become selfish. You have to look after number one. If other people have put you up to things in the past it will go well for you if you pass that responsibility on to them. If you take things on your own shoulders, you are certain to suffer.’
‘I see,’ said Martin cautiously. ‘What is this place?’
‘Part hospital, part prison, part assessment centre, for evaluating special cases.... like you.’
‘And all named after our great Leaderene.’
‘You are wrong there, Martin. The clinic is named after John Bletchington, Mrs Bletchington’s husband. As you probably know, he is a director of Triple A Oil, Anglo American Arabian. He has for several years been donating significant funds to the government to set up a network of clinics, just like this one, across the kingdom. We carry out vital work here, and are most grateful to the generosity of the Bletchington family, but especially to John, for making all this possible.’
John, eh, thought Martin, Christian name terms with the PM’s husband.
‘That’s a pretty speech.’
‘It isn’t a speech, Martin; I am simply acquainting you with the facts. What happened to your eye?’
‘Walked into a wall.’
‘That happens sometimes, unfortunately. Before I go, I will give you something for it.’
‘Thanks.’
He rustled in his file and brought out a red exercise book, the kind of thing they used to use in schools, years ago. On the front cover were four large black letters: HMSO. His Majesty’s Stationery Office.
‘Here,’ he said, handing it to Martin. ‘Take this.’
‘For me?’
Jason nodded and passed him a cheap yellow plastic pen.
‘Gee, thanks.’
‘Take my advice, Martin, cut out the clever dick replies. You must write down everything you know that you haven’t told us before. Don’t leave anything out. You do what I ask, and your release date will be brought forward. Refuse, and that date will slip away forever, far into the future, over the horizon, into the distance. It could slip so far away you’ll never live to see it.’
Martin peered into the guy’s face. He was now standing above him, and Martin wondered how many times he had said that before, for it came across as a well-practiced speech. Jason went outside, but returned almost immediately.
‘Here,’ he said, handing Martin a small tube of antiseptic cream. ‘For your eye.’
‘Thanks.’
‘I’ll be back at six with your dinner. Don’t waste the day, my friend. Oh, and there’s one important rule, No Shouting, not that it makes a damn bit of difference because these rooms are soundproofed, but the Governor doesn’t approve of shouters.’
‘How about screamers?’ said Martin, unable to keep a smile from his sore face.
Jason slowly shook his head.
‘You are going to learn the hard way, mate, if you go on like this. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.’
Martin didn’t reply. He watched his case officer, guard, nurse, or whatever the hell he was, collect his things together, and make his way to the door.
‘See you later,’ he said. ‘Make the day count.’
Martin coughed. His eye hurt. The door closed with a gentle bump like an airliner door closing, almost as if it were sucking the air from the room. He opened the notebook and stared at the blank spaces between the lines. He thought about what he should write. He had a few ideas, and the events of the previous days had given him the inspiration to write a hundred million pages. Ten minutes later, he picked up the ball pen, and began.
Thirty-Two
‘I am confident that you are withholding vital information, and because of that, you will be sent to Blackpool for 180 days. The time will enable the appropriate authorities to question you further.’
The senior magistrate was addressing Colin, as Jemima looked on across the empty courtroom. Eve had not been granted permission to be excused school; while Joss had no idea her father’s trial was underway. No one came down from London from The Messenger, and neither Colin nor Jemima were surprised at that. Once tainted a black sheep, only a fool would want to be associated with that degree of aggravation. There would be no mention of the case in the paper.
‘Oh no! That can’t be right!’ said Jemima loudly, courageously standing. ‘He is totally innocent. He is a good man!’
‘Silence!’ snapped the pompous magistrate, staring at Jemmie. ‘Any more of that and you will be charged with contempt!’
‘But....’ she managed to say before Colin intervened. ‘I’ll be all right, love; I’ll soon have it sorted.’
Earlier, an unidentified SPATs officer had given evidence from behind a screen. He had read a statement purportedly written and signed by Josephine Cornelius, stating that her father had regularly attended secret meetings in queer places with unidentified people, regardless of the weather. Furthermore, he had refused to tell anyone where he was going, or what he was doing, and he would never take anyone with him. The court was told too that the statement had been signed and witnessed by one Frank Preston, a young, but highly respected member of the Party.
‘Frank Preston!’ snapped Jemima, scornfully under her breath. ‘What have you done, Joss?’ she whispered, addressing her absent daughter. ‘I told you that boy was no good. Look at what he has got you involved in now.’
Colin glared at the magistrates and said, ‘You don’t think I am going to believe this ridiculous evidence spoken by an unseen face, presumably a man, though even that might be in doubt, pretending to be something written by my own daughter. It’s a disgrace. It’s absolute rubbish! Surely you can see that!’
The leading magistrate flushed.
‘Usher!’
‘Sir?’
‘Retrieve the statement!’
‘Yes, sir.’
The ageing usher ambled in a seesaw motion toward and behind the screen. A moment later he reappeared, clutching several sheets of stapled paper, sucking a boiled sweet as he went.
‘I don’t want them!’ snapped the magistrate. ‘Show them to the accused!’
‘Sorry, sir. Yes, sir.’
Colin watched the old man arthritically approach, his grey eyes impassive, as he placed the document before him. Colin grabbed it and rushed through it, before turning to the last page.
‘Is that, or is that not, the signature of Josephine Cornelius, your daughter?’ crowed the magistrate.
‘It could be, but her signature is an easy one to forge.’
‘Are you suggesting that SPATs officers have wasted our time by forging evidence?’
‘Not exactly,’ stuttered Colin, ‘I am saying that it could be a forgery. I refuse to believe that Joss would tell tales in this way. Why not bring her here to testify in person?’
The magistrates ignored the suggestion.
‘In my opinion therein lies the problem, Mister Cornelius. You consider assisting the lawful government as telling tales, whereas your brave and loyal daughter, who no doubt will one day gain her just reward, considered it her God given duty to assist the authorities in every way. Thank God for the courage of the young, I say,’ and he glanced at his colleagues who were both bobbing their heads like nodding dogs, and muttering ‘Hear, hear.’
> ‘It wasn’t like that at all,’ said Colin, a note of defeat in his voice.
‘That is precisely what it was like! You could learn a thing or two from your brave daughter, if only you weren’t so foolhardy.’
‘Whatever you say.’
‘I do say! Not that you appear to be listening. You need to think very seriously about changing your ways. You need to be taught a lesson. Take him down!’ and the magistrate nodded aggressively at the security officer. ‘We have a great many cases to get through today, and we cannot afford unplanned delays, especially by an ungrateful idiot like him.’
Colin was whisked away through a side door, and Jemima couldn’t help but wonder how long it would be before she saw her husband again.
IN THE BOURNEMOUTH SPATs HQ the atmosphere was heavy with anticipation. Their new boss was on his way, and there was much speculation as to his identity. Smeggan stood with his back to the door, polystyrene cup of coffee in his hand, from which he occasionally wetted his mouth. Hewitt stood before him, chatting with his contemporaries, while all around, junior officers bantered and laid small bets as to the name of the person who would rule their lives for the foreseeable future.
The lucky sod, thought Smeggan, for ridiculous though it might sound, and to no one had he dared confide his opinion, that he, Jarvis Smeggan, would have made the best choice for the SACSPAT. Southern Area Commander, SPATs. His dream, his target. Ah well, he consoled himself, perhaps next time. He was still young enough, he was getting closer, he was sure of that, and his time would surely come.
‘At least I have some new and important information to offer,’ muttered Smeggan. ‘Get off on the right foot, and all that. More arrests, better results, we are in a results driven business, my friends,’ he said, to anyone who would listen, though in truth not many of the younger officers were listening to him, because Smeggan had shared that vital piece of information many times before.
We are in a result driven business my friends.
Most of them could have guessed that Jarvis Smeggan didn’t possess many friends.
Something weird happened.
People were shifting on their feet, and stretching upward, peering toward the doors.
Strangers were approaching.
A party of bigwigs were stomping down the corridor. There were five of them in total, four trusted lieutenants, surrounding the new SAC. They weren’t exactly marching though they were walking in perfect step, moving rapidly together, their feet pump-pump-pumping on the wooden floor, coming closer with every second, like some kind of modern Praetorian Guard. It was as if the air itself parted to let them through.
‘Eh up!’ whispered Hewitt. ‘Bog rolls to the ready.’
A young woman officer giggled.
Silence fell.
Those that weren’t standing did so. Everyone faced the double doors desperate to see, except Smeggan. He had long planned his initial introduction to the new SAC. He would turn about at the very last moment, and smile respectfully across the room at his new boss. He hoped and expected that this turning motion from him alone would catch the new man’s eye; that his respectful mini head bow would be noticed and noted, and that in so doing, he alone would stand apart from the common herd.
He recalled again his mother’s advice. Jarvis, she would say in her far back high pitched voice, Always stand apart from the common herd, it will show the people that matter, that You are special. I am special, he said to himself. He had gone so far as to practice the manoeuvre before the mirror in Lilac cottage. In his eyes it looked quite perfect. His mother would have been so impressed.
The double doors were thrown open by the leading outriders and the party burst into the room as if a dam had been breached.
‘Oh my God!’ whispered Hewitt.
Smeggan took these words as his signal to begin turning.
Hewitt finished his sentence. ‘It’s a freaking tart!’ he whispered under his breath, in case anyone should overhear.
Jarvis Smeggan was pleased at the news, for he had always found that women officers were easy meat for his bullying tactics, for rarely could they resist his intimidating behaviour.
The leading lieutenant began shouting to a packed and silent room.
‘Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you the new Southern Area Commander!’
Smeggan finished his timed turn, as his eyes homed in on the striking figure in the centre of the group.
‘Jesus Christ!’ he wheezed.
‘Elizabeth Mariner!’ called the lieutenant.
Smeggan quickly re-gathered himself and went through with his plan. He smiled crookedly, slightly nodded, and when he looked up again he noted that she was indeed staring into the back of his eyes. It was exactly as he had planned. Later on, he would always swear that at that moment, she had smiled at him, sweetly, he said, though not one of the other 124 SPATs officers present that day were able to confirm it.
Elizabeth Mariner began speaking.
‘I am incredibly honoured to accept this important position. I look forward to leading you all in the ongoing drive against terrorism, to provide law and order and stability in our region. We have all enjoyed great successes in the past year, and I am confident with your eternally vigilant stance we shall continue to do so. I already know many of you personally, and many of you know me, though to those of you that don’t, can I just say that I am hard working, and passionate about the job in hand. I expect those attributes to be shared by all of you here today. Anyone who is not up for the fight, anyone who feels they do not belong, anyone who will not support me every hour, every minute of the day and night, then I say that you should resign, and before the week is out.’
She paused, as if remembering her lines, taking the moment to glance round at the faces. Some of her charges took the opportunity to glance at their comrades; others stared at their shoes, while some, perhaps the bolder ones, held her gaze.
‘We have a great deal to do, ladies and gentlemen, and the sooner we begin, the sooner we shall accomplish our vitally important tasks. It is my intention to interview each and every one of you during the next two weeks, but for now, I would like to see Inspector Watkins in my office as soon as this meeting is over, and after that, another of your number, an Inspector Jarvis Smeggan. Is Jarvis Smeggan here?’
Those that knew him turned and glanced at a suddenly nervous Smeggan. Elizabeth followed their eyes.
‘Ah yes,’ she said coolly, ‘there you are, Jarvis, my office too, afterwards, and to the rest of you, let us Get on with the job!’
In the days and weeks that followed that phrase became her rallying cry. The vast majority of those present did precisely that. No one saw fit to resign. No one would have dreamt of it. The perks of position were simply too much to lose.
Smeggan waited outside her new office.
He could hear raised voices from within, but so muffled were they, he could not make out a single word. He sat with his back ramrod straight, and attempted to figure out why he had been called. Had she received prior information about his success in Blackpool?
But then again, how long had she been a SPATs officer? She must have been in the service all along, even when he interrogated her, and he tried to recall every moment of those sessions. If we have to detain you here at this desk for the next 180 days, then I am quite prepared to do precisely that. Are you prepared to sit there for that long.... in soiled underwear, with your tongue hanging out? Smeggan shivered. Had he been overly harsh? Had he crossed the legal lines? Had he made an enemy for life of the, presumably, undercover agent? Or could it be that his vigorous and comprehensive methods had filled her with admiration and respect for his ways, the diligence with which he had pursued his aims? If he had to guess, he would favour the latter, but he had never been the most astute of men. He returned to thinking about her, about her operating as an undercover agent.
He shouldn’t have been surprised at that. The SPATs employed thousands of undercover officers beavering away in all walks of life.
Planting an agent in the National Bank HQ was precisely the kind of place where he would have expected to find an operative. Perhaps subconsciously, he had known all along she was stationed there. Following that crazy line of reasoning, he quickly convinced himself that he had, in reality, guessed that she was an agent all along, even while he was interrogating her. He didn’t want to blow her cover; he didn’t want to disturb an active sleeper. Indeed, that was the only reason he had released her, letting her off with a warning, and a fine. By the time he entered her office, his story would be clear in his mind.
The muffled voices in the room next door continued unabated, and Jarvis would have given anything to know what they were discussing. Him perhaps? Or was he simply being vain? It was another fifteen minutes before Inspector Watkins came out in a hurry. His face was red and he was blowing hard as he hurried away like an angry bull, without so much as a glance at Smeggan sitting there, waiting patiently. Through the open door Jarvis heard his new boss say to a colleague, ‘Is Smeggan there?’
‘Yes ma’am, he is.’
‘Send him in; let’s get this business out of the way, once and for all.’
Without waiting to be summoned Smeggan was already on his feet. As the lieutenant pulled the door fully open, she found him standing before her.
‘Ma’am will see you now,’ said the startled young woman, moving to one side to let him enter.
‘Thank you,’ he said loudly, straightening his back and almost marching into her private sanctum. The young woman remained outside and pulled the door closed.
Smeggan found the new SAC reading from a bright red plastic file. She didn’t look up. He stood in the centre of the room and searched for a chair. There were none. Elizabeth glanced up.
‘Smeggan,’ she said coldly.
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘We meet again.’
‘We do indeed, ma’am.’
She turned back to the file and after a long moment said: ‘Drugs.’
‘Drugs, ma’am?’
‘Yes Smeggan, drugs.’
