State Sponsored Terror

by David Carter

  ‘Something up?’ he said, gently.

  Adam looked up at the old guy. He wore a straggly beard hiding a careworn face.

  ‘She has a problem we can’t seem to solve.’

  ‘We all have those,’ he said, taking an untipped navy cigarette from a silver case. ‘Want one?’

  Adam shook his head.

  ‘What’s her name?’ he asked, lighting the tobacco with a match, before slipping the spent matchstick back in the box, betraying his navy training.

  ‘Eve.’

  ‘Nice name. So, what’s the problem, Eve? Surely nothing can be so bad, not at your age.’

  Perhaps she was pregnant, he imagined, the age-old conundrum, perhaps the lad had finished with her, he mused, told her that she was no longer wanted. At their age that was about as bad as it could get. Or maybe the dreaded EWP summons had bounced into their computer, though they looked a little young for that.

  Eve turned and peered up at the scruffy guy.

  ‘I have something for the King,’ she bleated, ‘but they won’t let me in to give it to him.’

  ‘Really. And what might that be?’

  ‘Some papers. Some really important papers.’

  The man attempted to smile through his pale blue eyes. He found it difficult to smile, she could tell that.

  ‘Perhaps I could help in some way,’ he said.

  ‘Yes?’ she said. ‘How?’

  The man nodded the tiniest of nods.

  ‘Yes,’ she said again. ‘You’ll take them, won’t you?’

  That peculiar little nod again, such tiny movement that said so much.

  ‘If you like.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Eve, ‘I’d like that,’ and she took the bible from her bag.

  ‘What are you doing?’ whispered Adam.

  She offered the bible to the man.

  He reached down.

  ‘This is a very special bible,’ he said, ‘anyone can see that,’ as he clasped his leather-gloved hand around the binding.

  ‘It is,’ she said.

  ‘I don’t think you should do that,’ said Adam.

  She let go of the book.

  ‘I wish you well,’ the man said, and he smiled one last time, before setting off back toward the castle.

  ‘What are you doing?’ repeated Adam.

  ‘Didn’t you see?’

  ‘See what?’

  ‘He was the King.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘He was the King, Adam. We have delivered the papers to the King, just like we said we would all along.’

  ‘It couldn’t have been him!’

  ‘It was, stupid. I would recognise those eyes anywhere. Just imagine that same man after a wash and a shave. Place him in a uniform or a smart suit. That man was the King. I’d stake my life on it.’

  Adam gawped after the man who was now disappearing down the path. They saw him turn and shout, ‘Come on dogs! Come on!’

  Three corgis that had been gambolling across the grass, chased after their master.

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘It was all in the eyes. I’d recognise those eyes anywhere.’

  ‘He wasn’t as tall as I’d imagined,’ said Adam.

  ‘Then you agree it was him,’ said Eve, grinning.

  He reached across and pushed her shoulder playfully.

  ‘Maybe. It might have been. It could have been. I hope so, for your sake.’

  ‘There is no might about it!’

  ‘S’pose you could be right.’

  ‘I am right.’

  Two more men came walking, almost marching; wearing black coats and bowler hats, toward the bench. The first man touched his hat and smiled down and murmured, ‘Good day to you,’ without pausing.

  ‘Lovely day,’ said Eve, through her freshly returned sunshine smile.

  ‘Nice day for it,’ said man number two, as they walked briskly after the dirty man with the dogs. Adam and Eve glanced at one another and said, almost as one, ‘Security. Has to be.’

  Fifty-Four

  Elizabeth stretched out on the black leather sofa she had treated herself to at Christmas, and sipped a glass of good red wine. She glanced over the rim of the glass and out to sea. It had been a stormy night and the rollers were coming on, bringing fresh waves of determined surfers with every splash, onto the beach. New Year’s Day and the kids were out surfing. Did they never take a holiday?

  She closed her eyes and thought of last New Year’s Day. She had spent it with Martin, alone. It had been the first time they had ever spent real time together. It was not long after, that she had volunteered for undercover duties. Everything had snowballed after that. First day of the year and she was alone with a bottle of wine, and a metal box crammed full of files, all needing her urgent attention.

  ‘Oh Martin why?’ she said aloud, as she stooped down and heaved the file headed Martin Reamse from the blue box. She flipped it open and was confronted by a colour photograph of his handsome face.

  ‘How did you get mixed up in all of this?’ she muttered. Perhaps the state had been harsh on you, but you only had yourself to blame. She flicked through the papers and read the case officer’s report, written up in the Bletchington Clinic by one Jason Wellworthy.

  The prisoner shows no propensity to help himself, nor does he make any effort to cooperate with the authorities, or help himself in any way. We remain convinced he is in possession of information detrimental to the State. It is almost as if he is resigned to his fate. He appears to believe he will be shipped to the Falkland Islands, yet deep down I suspect he knows that he will never leave this Clinic, other than in a wooden box. The man is a danger to the State, and as such, should never be released. One thing I am certain of, he has never once considered that his partner, Commander Elizabeth Mariner, was and is, an exceptional SPATs officer. She is to be commended for carrying out work above and beyond the call of duty.

  ‘Yes,’ Liz said aloud. ‘Bloody true,’ but at that moment, a hug and a kiss from Martin Reamse would not have been the worst thing in the whole wide world. Could there be a better way of seeing in the New Year? Could there be a worse way, of being alone? She shook her head and tossed away the file. ‘Water under the bridge,’ she muttered, water under the sludgy bridge of modern life, as she reached down and grabbed some details on that other guy, what was his name? Giles Sharpe. Giles bloody Sharpe, what a God-awful name.

  She shook the file open, and gulped more wine.

  He looked quite nice. Surprisingly handsome, in fact. Firm jaw, kind eyes, neat hair, broken, yet tidy nose. Careful Liz, she warned herself. Was she gazing at this man’s photograph through wine infected goggles? Not yet, though before the day was out, she might be.

  Divorced. Didn’t they say he was single?

  So? Wasn’t everyone divorced? It wasn’t the end of the world. Half the bloody human raced seemed to be legally separated, despite the government making the procedure so much more difficult. His wife had apparently run off with his superior officer. Bet that shook his vast ego, she imagined. They’d produced one child. Darius. Christ, the whole family went in for God-awful names. Weekend custody of the boy. Only to be expected. A telephone number. Eleven digits to speak to a stranger. Tap tap tap, a few numbers on the keypad, and that horrendous conversation would begin.

  Hello. A mutual friend of ours suggested that we might meet up. (Would hook up sound better, more modern?) What do you think? Shall we have dinner?

  ‘Hell no,’ she said aloud, ‘I think not.’ But he was nice looking, that was undeniable, and though there were several minus points, the plus ones outweighed them, hands down. And who wanted to be alone on New Year’s Day, or on any other goddamn day for that matter? Who in their right mind would ever choose to return to an empty cold apartment at night, and talk to flat grey never-answering walls? First step to madness, someone once said, and Liz could understand that. What was the other thing New Year was famous for? She thought about that for a second, as she topped up her gla
ss.

  ‘Damn!’

  The bottle was empty.

  No matter, there was another one stored beside the refrigerator.

  ‘Resolutions,’ she said, returning to the sofa. ‘Resolutions.’

  She scratched her neck.

  ‘My New Year’s resolution is to find a good man, and get married, and have a child.’

  God, where had that come from? She had never uttered such a thing before. Elizabeth Mariner was a career girl, always had been, always would be. No one who knew her well was ever surprised to discover she was unmarried. It was so obvious why. She was a career girl through and through. Of course there had been, and would be, a string of passionate affairs with handsome men, but marriage? Don’t make me laugh. Elizabeth Mariner was already married, to the job, married to the service, the SPATs. Any man with designs on her would always have to take second place, and fact was, most men would not countenance such an idea. Simple as, and those that would, were not worth having.

  She stretched out on her back on the sofa, her head propped up on cushions, just enough to keep sipping. She thought of her recent meeting with Thelma.

  Two new policies.

  Aye, that’s right, that’s all, just the two.

  The first was to kick all the blood sucking immigrants out of the country, and if that wasn’t enough, the second was to murder the King, whether in reality, or by abolishing the office, wasn’t yet entirely clear.

  Excuse me, Mister King, but we really have to let you go. There is no demand for Kings these days, market forces, you see. It’s your age, dearie. We are so sorry to see you go, but we will make it worth your while. You can keep the car, how would that be? And a house or two, just so long as you bugger off, and don’t bother us again. The children, you say? Yes, a good point, we hadn’t thought of that. Four, isn’t it? A very valid point.

  Liz made a mental note to mention that one to Thelma. If they really were going to pursue the policy of cutting off the Head of State, literally or otherwise, would it not be a good idea to give serious thought to dealing with the offspring as well? Young boys made a terrible habit of growing into strong men. Vengeful men. And if Liz was to be in anyway associated with this contentious policy, she did not want some blazing-eyed torturer descending on her retirement bungalow thirty years down the line, thank you very much, screaming: Murdered my father did you? Well, take that!

  No, the children would have to be dealt with too. Czars, all over again. Pretty girls they were. Such a shame. On the railway line wasn’t it, or in some grubby rat infested basement? It wouldn’t be like that this time. Oh no, much cleaner, more decisive, less public. Quick trip to the Bletchington Clinic. Little bit of treatment, sir? Nothing to worry about, you might feel a little prick. The whole sodding family. Voila. Job done!

  Quick trip to the Bletchington Clinic.

  Syringe, arm, plunger, big sleep, mission ticked.

  Nasty when you think about it. The thing was, not to think about it, about any of it, that was the way forward. SPATs training had always decreed that some things were best forgotten. Don’t think about it and you will be fine, thinking is bad for you. Don’t think!

  Liz had made her life choices and she was satisfied with that. She was a Dame now, don’t you know? Or at least she would be once she had visited the King at his home. Dame Elizabeth Mariner of Boscombe; though she added the second part for effect. She sipped the wine.

  The King thing? What was the problem? She would load the blessed syringe herself if need be. Just so long as she retained her place in the greater scheme of things. That family didn’t have a divine right to live the high life, no matter what their publicists might say, did they? Of course not. Why shouldn’t they be shunted off into the sunset, once they had outlived their usefulness? It had happened to far worthier people than them, than he.

  And the second policy? What was that all about again?

  She giggled to herself. She was becoming forgetful. The damned French! It was all their fault, it usually was. They shouldn’t have created such a hypnotic drink, as Burgundy.

  Repatriation!

  That’s the one. She shouted through the windows at the tumbling human seals splish splashing their way in across the Dorset coast. She moved to the sliding doors and opened them with a dull thud.

  ‘Repatriation!’ she screamed out across the bay. ‘RE-bloody-PATRIATION!!!!’

  What was the problem with that?

  No one had actually said these people and their kids could stay here forever, did they? Of course not. They had taken it for granted. Foreigners usually did. They only came here for the money. English money. That, and the standard of living, and the food in the shops, and the medical care, and the utilities that worked every time, at the flick of a switch, the touch of a button, most of the time.

  They had filched as much cash as they were going to get. Things were about to change. The till was about to be slammed closed, forever. Soon, they would all be going home, the whole bloody lot of them. Hurrah! Five years time and the country would be cleansed. What a genius that Thelma Bletchington was. Who, but she could have dreamt up such a string of earth shattering policies? The thing was, Liz agreed with them, every last one, and now that she had the power and influence of the SPATs organisation at her beck and call, she could utilise that force to carry through Thelma’s wishes to the last letter of the alphabet.

  Liz hiccupped, and giggled.

  Mrs Thelma Bletchington was quite simply the best thing that had ever happened to this country. Forget about Churchill and Wellington and Nelson and Thatcher and that prat Blair, and God alone knows who else. Thelma Bletchington was the one who ultimately would be remembered.

  ‘I’ll drink to that,’ Liz slurred, raising her glass to the empty walls, and the ongoing breakers that were now strangely untainted by the bucking kids.

  The coming Wednesday, Elizabeth would attend Buckingham Palace to pick up her Damehood, or whatever the stupid word was, and she couldn’t wait for it to happen. Urgency was the watchword, for if the monarchy was truly to be abolished, what would happen to all this Knighting and Lording and Daming business?

  It was possible she might become the last woman ever to be created a Dame in the long and confused history of the nation. Another unique note for her epitaph.

  She swilled another mouthful of red, like mouthwash.

  What was the other thing they had discussed?

  That was it, keeping a wary eye on the deluded Army and Navy officers who proposed to defend the King to the last. What absolute tossers they were. Did they not have any idea how out of touch and dated they sounded? She had already begun that little task, and what an interesting one it was. All their telephones were now tapped, mobiles included, all their houses and apartments were bugged, and not just wiretaps either, but cameras, set deep into walls, undetectable. Cameras were far more revealing than bugs.

  One day in the future bugs would be made redundant. It was true what they say; a picture tells a thousand words, or something like that, and you would be amazed what went on behind closed doors. You just would not believe it. Boys on boys. Really boys, what would your wives make of that? And such responsible people too, pillars of the community, often to be seen and heard issuing advice to the general public. Who would have thought it?

  Her department had already secured enough intelligence and evidence to fill another three Bletchington Clinics. Another boost for the building department. Serves them right, those officers, far too fond of saying one thing, and doing another. Their own fault, entirely.

  She wondered how many people knew that all newbuild homes now came with compulsory sound enabled videocams built into the walls, undetectable devices to all but the most astute expert. Not many, a handful perhaps. Was there something silently turning over in her apartment too? A videocam? She couldn’t know for sure, but she wouldn’t have been surprised. Perhaps just as well she remained single, for now. On the other hand, an occasional bout of exhibitionism never did an
yone any harm. Liz giggled.

  There were plans in hand to recruit another 10,000 SPATs personnel, and she would see to it that the vast majority of them were women. It was simple logic. They made better intelligence officers, and better observation staff too. Gossip, innuendo, observation, rumour, fact, all grist to the mill, in her line of work, something that women had traditionally excelled at, and every one of the new brigade would be at Liz’s beck and call. In a few years time women would outnumber men in the security services by two to one. Couldn’t come soon enough.

  As for finance, she couldn’t care two hooters about how much her department cost to run, and neither would Thelma, so long as she retained the keys to Number 10, in her Gucci handbag, so long as they kept their fragrant fingers on the levers of power. There would always be ways and means of raising necessary funds for such essential departments.

  Liz emptied the glass. She was becoming sleepy.

  She thought of Giles Sharpe again.

  What would he be like, this Giles Sharpe?

  What would it be like to be Mrs Giles Sharpe? Sleeping with him, every night?

  She could not say the name without giggling. She thought of Henderson the Hunk.... and Thelma.... on New Year’s Day. What would they be doing now? Cuddling, no doubt, or whatever the in word was for it. Course they would, Liz could see it now. That Thelma Bletchington never wasted an opportunity to talk about sex, even in a roundabout kind of way; she was forever throwing double entendres into the conversation.

  In Liz’s experience that meant one of two things, either she was getting far too much bedroom activity, or she wasn’t getting any at all, and Liz couldn’t believe that to be true, yet it had been awhile since she herself had.... and while she was thinking of that, the face of Giles Sharpe popped back into her mind. A moment later, Martin Reamse’s photograph came in from the side; seemingly kicking Sharpe’s handsome face from her vision, as if someone was fast-forwarding photographic slides through her head.