Matlock's System

by Reginald Hill

  “Sharp of you. Shall we sit down.”

  He moved lightly across to the large old fashioned desk which stood in the comer diagonally opposite to the bureau. Behind him came Francis, his beard beginning to grow again. Through the door Matlock could see another two or three monks. Francis turned and said something to them. They nodded, he closed the door and stood with his back to it.

  “Now,” said the Abbot. “Let us talk.”

  9

  You “see,” said the Abbot, “there is and always has been a basic contradiction in the make-up of our organization. This stems from a contradiction in your Age Laws, Mr. Matlock. When you first propounded the idea, an Expectation of Life of ninety years or thereabouts seemed not unreasonable. But two things have happened. Firstly because of gross mishandling of the nation’s economy after your departure, first by Brother Adeste here …”

  The old man stirred in protest but Francis took a step forward and he relapsed into a vicious silence. The Abbot continued unperturbed. “ … and then by his successor, Browning, the E.O.L. has dropped steadily year by year for many years until, as we all know, it has at last reached the Bible Barrier. At the same time medical science has not been standing still. There are drugs, techniques, which delay the ageing process considerably. But it seems rather pointless putting these at the disposal of those who are never going to be able to benefit from them.”

  “To those that have shall be given. From those who have not …” Matlock trailed away dully.

  “Well done, Mr. Matlock. I see the Abbey is having a positive effect on you after all. Turn that monitor down, will you, Francis? I must have a word with Brother Duplex about those arm movements. You’re right, Mr. Matlock. He’s developing a style of his own. Well, to continue. The contradiction present in our set-up has always been that the old guard was being preserved with the connivance of the new, who looked forward to similar preservation when their time came. And there has through history never been any love lost between the old guard and the new.

  “But this state of things would have continued quite happily, were places such as this merely hermitages where the worthy old could live out their last few years in peace.”

  “Places?” interjected Matlock. “Plural?”

  “Oh yes. That’s one of the results of the contradiction you see. We had to expand. But more of that in a moment. No, the real trouble was that because the E.O.L. in law got less and less while the E.O.L. in medical terms got more and more, our customers started arriving here with upwards of quarter of a century of life still before them. Look at Brother Adeste here. He should by the estimates of twenty or thirty years ago be at best a bed-ridden dotard, more likely a worm-eaten corpse. But he’s still hale and hearty, apart from some interesting contusions round the throat. The outcome of these changes in circumstance was twofold. Firstly over-crowding. We started getting too many because the oldest weren’t dying. And our customers began to grow discontented. These are men not used to anonymity, to sitting back without influence while others wield the reins of government.”

  He paused and pursed his lips as though in private amusement.

  “And?” prompted Matlock, eager to hear the rest now. Whatever the future held, he had decided, he must play his part, big or small, in full possession of all the facts.

  “We solved the first problem by developing other centres on similar though less magnificent lines. Lindisfarne on Holy Island, Lanercost in Cumberland. Our neighbour Bolton. Of course this made the problem of keeping the secret more acute. Not that we feared anything from the ultimate if anything got out, but local authorities and newspapers might have been able to do a great deal of damage before the muzzle was applied. As it is we have come under a certain amount of suspicion, but never any direct accusation. Or at least none that was published.

  “So far so good. But I had noticed in my dealing with the Prime Minister in recent years a growing uneasiness with the situation. While the thought of another thirty years of life appealed greatly to him, the prospect of passing it certainly in obscurity, probably in constant danger of discovery, and most unbearable of all, in the company of men who had been his unrespected superiors for most of his working life, did not appeal at all.

  “Meanwhile back at the Abbey Brother Adeste and others began to fret at the bit. They have attempted to assume some kind of vicarious power with me as their plenipotentiary to the P.M., but Browning was having none of that. So more positive methods were sought. Power is a drug of strange potency, Mr. Matlock, as I am sure, you know.”

  “I have lost the taste for it Abbot,” said Matlock.

  “Nonsense. You are drinking in every word I say in the hope that you might be able to use it against me. Or someone. And so you may.

  “Well now, at this point in time some two and a half years ago, just when I was beginning to feel the horns of my own personal dilemma pricking very hard — I mean how best to preserve myself in the developing clash between the Hooded Brethren and Browning — a strange and fortuitous event occurred. I was approached, subtly and indirectly, by a member of the Anti-Age-Law movement, your group if you remember, Mr. Matlock. It was the President of the Doncaster Poetry Appreciation Society as a matter of fact, up here allegedly to have a word with Brother Michelangelo, one of our genuinely religious brethren with some claims to being a minor Minor Poet. This man paid a courtesy call on me. I soon realized he was looking for an opportunity to sound me out on certain topics. I encouraged him, gave the kind of answer I saw he wanted, and soon I was being invited to join your conspiracy. A very naive kind of man really. I cannot but feel he deserved his fate, whatever it was.

  “At first I was merely amused by the irony of the situation. But soon I began to see in it a kind of insurance against any possible move Browning might make against us. I told Browning I had been approached, of course. He probably knew already. Indeed he might have arranged it. Anyway, he advised me, as I hoped, to join.”

  Mixed with his revulsion, Matlock felt a strong sense of relief. This seemed to let Lizzie and Ernst off the hook.

  “So it was you who betrayed us,” he half whispered.

  “Oh no. Not always. I had to give him a lot of information, of course. But I was only one of a thousand sources. As far as you’re concerned, Mr. Matlock, I have been very tight-lipped. Any information about your activities came from other sources, probably those I have suggested to you already.

  “No, I was very interested in making the Anti-A’s a going concern. I found a considerable amount of enthusiasm, often positively militant, among the Unhooded Brothers. People like Brother Phillip for instance. He’s a great fan of yours. Of course they don’t know about Brother Adeste, and the others; I don’t quite know how they’d take that. But they’re tremendously useful as guards and patrols. And of course I have my own picked band of Brothers led by Francis here whose loyalty is to me and me alone. Mercenaries you might call them. But not ungodly men for all that, eh Francis?”

  Francis smiled, his eyes still fixed on Carswell who sat still, but taut as a spring, in the great armchair.

  “The Hooded Chapter, of course, were kept abreast of events. At least, as much as I thought it good for them to know.”

  Carswell moved then, squirming with hate.

  “I never trusted you, Abbot.”

  “Indeed? Then I’m pleased I never voted for you or your party in my life.

  “Well, recently things began to come to a head. I was influential in the movement, you understand, but not its leader. The Scots had been approached, not through me. I was much against it. I have reason to believe they are not very fond of me either.”

  “They’re not,” said Matlock, remembering.

  “Curious folk, the Celts. You see, what I wanted was not a revolution, but the threat of one. I wanted a gun to point at Browning should he look troublesome. But the gun was now cocked and it had a hair trigger. Matters were out of my hands, the climax was fast approaching. So I looked at my cards, then volunteer
ed to be the one to contact the charismatic Matthew Matlock. You’ll be interested to know, Mr. Matlock, that not even the leaders of this motley gang of revolutionaries knew just how much or little you yourself knew. But you were our unifying factor, our rallying point. Under you, the Anti-A’s could move as one in a way they couldn’t under any other single individual.

  “So I wanted you with me. I still couldn’t see which way was best to go. But with you, I had a double chance.”

  “You mean, to use me as a figurehead, or to trade me in to Browning?”

  “Exactly. But Browning moved too quickly for me. My intelligence service was limited. He squashed the plot and got you. Your value to me was less now, but still worth a risk — your risk — to get hold of. So Francis brought you out and here you are.”

  Matlock closed his eyes and was surprised to find he could almost have slept.

  Oh Lizzie, Lizzie, he thought, I long for your arms to shelter me from these men who turn me, and turn me, and turn me again, till I face the way they want, but never know which way that is.

  “Are you all right?” asked an anxious voice.

  He opened his eyes. The Abbot now stood beside him, his face all benevolent anxiety. The oak panels glowed gently in the shifting light of the flames. All seemed well. Even the flickering whiteness of the monitor screen seemed safe, domestic. He shook his head.

  “What now, Abbot?” he asked. “Why do you tell us all this? What has happened?”

  “Yes, Abbot,” came Carswell’s voice. “I guess you’ve been with Browning these last few days. What have you been up to?”

  The Abbot smiled and rested his fingertips together to form a Norman arch.

  “True, Brother. I have been negotiating with him. And very amenable I have found him. He doesn’t want trouble at this point in time. His position is precarious enough as it is, though he has made a great deal of political capital out of the uprising that never was. Of course he has not mentioned that its main purpose was to overthrow the Age Laws.

  No, he has subtly insinuated that its main purpose was to steal the property of, and rape the wives and daughters of, every good citizen. Fortunately, Mr. Matlock, he still regards you as a person of some importance. In the hands of the Scots, say, you could still guarantee sufficient support in the North to make an invasion feasible. So I have promised to keep you safe and sound.

  “I did have to make a couple of concessions, Brother Adeste. One of them involves you, I fear. He fears for your health up here in this bleak place. A man of your age needs what comforts the South and the metropolis can offer him. He has sent a special escort of men with a long history of medical training to accompany you on your journey.”

  Carswell stood up, slowly, as if his years had suddenly grown heavy on his shoulders.

  “I will not go.”

  “You must.”

  “I will not. I will not. You bastard. You traitor!”

  He turned and ran desperately to the door. Francis’ waiting arms wrapped round him and he kicked for a moment, then hung like a rag doll.

  “Are they here, Francis?”

  “Outside, Abbot.”

  “Good. Give him to them.”

  Francis turned and opened the door, Carswell didn’t struggle but turned his head as he was carried through and raised a limp arm towards Matlock.

  “Matt,” he said, and again, “Matt.”

  Matlock didn’t move. In the lighted square of the door over Carswell’s pathetic white hairs he saw two men, not robed but in suits, their dark-blue ties split down the middle by a thin silver line. One looked him straight in the face for a second, then the door closed behind Francis and they were gone.

  “Abbot,” he said.

  “I’m sorry about that, Matt — I may call you Matt now, I think — but ...”

  “Abbot,” he interrupted. “Those men. Browning’s men. They saw me.”

  A shadow crossed the Abbot’s face for a moment, but he then gave a smile.

  “I take your point. They know you’re here. But not for long eh? We’ll move you along in a very short while. It’s all laid on. But first, and very important, we mustn’t forget your imminent birthday.”

  “Abbot,” said Matlock, “you don’t know Browning as I do. You should do, but you don’t. You can’t. It won’t be hours. It might be minutes. You must stop those men. You must ...”

  His protests died as the wall panel at which the Abbot had been fumbling moved away and out of the gap revealed there slid a shining silver machine.

  It was a Heart Clock Adjuster.

  “Just step over here please, Matt, and we’ll put you on a few years. We have to keep you alive now, don’t we?”

  All Matlock’s fears came rushing back.

  “It can wait a few moments, Abbot, but those men can’t. Get hold of them, for God’s sake.”

  The Abbot hesitated.

  “I fear you are exaggerating the dangers, Matt. Of course we don’t want Browning to know your exact whereabouts. But by the time those men make a report, he’ll know you could be anywhere. In any case they will not be allowed to leave without clearance from me.”

  “You bloody fool,” screamed Matlock, his own fears suddenly, horribly, hardening to certainty. “Haven’t you seen a wrist-radio? Don’t you think Browning wouldn’t be happy to take this place apart if he thought he could get everyone here at one fell swoop?”

  “He wouldn’t dare. We know too much. He wouldn’t dare.”

  But the Abbot’s voice was full of uncertainty and suddenly he moved purposefully across to his desk-phone. But before he could touch it, it gave off a high-pitched urgent scream which only stopped when he picked it up.

  “Yes,” he snapped, jabbing a button. The picture on the monitor leapt from the Church, where the acting-Abbot was saying the benediction, to the control room in the tower. A worried looking monk peered out towards them.

  “Abbot,” he said, “something’s happening out by the gatehouse. We’re trying to get in close-up ...”

  He dissolved before their eyes and the screen went blank. A split second later the floor rocked beneath their feet and a huge explosion blasted their ears.

  “Dear God,” said the Abbot, white-faced. “Dear God!”

  The door burst open and Francis rushed in.

  “The tower. They’ve blasted the tower.”

  “How, for God’s sake?”

  “How should I know? Rockets, I think.”

  He was shouldered aside by another monk.

  “Abbot,” he cried. “They’re coming in. Helicopters full of men.”

  Suddenly he and Francis stiffened together like some ghastly double act, then toppled forward into the room.

  The Abbot stood stock still, but Matlock moved forward so quickly that he caught Francis’ gun before the dead monk hit the ground and revealed the smoking hole between his shoulders.

  Matlock threw himself out into the corridor his finger pressed hard on the trigger. The speed of the attack surprised the two men who stood outside. One of them went down to the first burst of shots, the other dropped flat and took aim, but there was no time for aim.

  Matlock heard the Abbot come out beside him.

  “They came back,” he said. “Conscientious perhaps. Or glory-seekers. They came back to do it themselves.”

  “We’d better move,” said the Abbot. “This is a bit of a dead end up here.”

  He made to move off down the corridor but Matlock’s gun jammed in his belly.

  “Don’t forget that,” he said. “I need it.”

  The Abbot went back into his study and picked up the Adjuster.

  “You’re right. Even if you didn’t need it, it’s worth a million of anything you name. Shall we go now?”

  The lift door was open, the lift occupied. It was Carswell.

  For a moment Matlock thought the old man was alive but the blank unseeing eyes told him the truth even before the frail corpse slid down the wall against which it had been propped an
d sprawled across the floor.

  “They must have killed him in the lift, radioed their news to Browning’s men, then come straight back up for us.”

  The Abbot did not reply but started to drag the body out into the corridor. The Adjuster impeded him and he could only use one hand.

  “In the interests of speed, Brother,” he said, “could you help me here?”

  Overcoming his distaste, Matlock seized the old man by the shoulders and heaved him out. When he straightened up his hands were tacky with blood.

  “No time for obsequies, I’m afraid,” said the Abbot. “Down we go. Do keep that gun ready.”

  But there was no need for it below in the cold passageway, dim and shadowy by contrast with the brightness they had left. As yet it was deserted, though the sounds of war were all about — the crackle of guns, the shouting of men, now and then the loud explosion of something more than a hand-gun.

  “Where are we heading?” asked Matlock.

  The Abbot stood uncertain for a moment, then seemed to make up his mind.

  “This way,” he said and they set off at a jog down the passage which led to the Cloister Court.

  The Abbot talked breathlessly as he ran.

  “Browning won’t stop till he’s razed the Abbey. Now he’s committed himself, he can’t just go halfway. But he’ll want proof we’re dead first. Not just a pile of rubble we might or might not be under.”

  He stopped talking to gasp in great lungfuls of air.

  Matlock shouted back, “How does that help us?”

  The Abbot stopped and leaned up against the wall.

  “It doesn’t much. But at least it means they’ll want everybody. There are one or two others he’ll want to be sure are not wandering round the countryside.”

  “But his men will recognize people they know should have been dead years ago.”

  “So what? That’s exacdy his justification for this attack. The Age-Law evaders revealed. A plot against the country. There is one law for all, rich and poor. Can’t you hear him? This will make him.”

  They were almost at the end of the passage where it came out beside the Chapter House. The Abbot peered carefully out into the Cloister Square, now no longer dark but fitfully lit by flashes of light from the fighting which seemed to be centred in the adjacent Church. Overhead swung helicopters and their searchlight beams swept across the Square and up and down the whole complex of Abbey buildings. Even as they watched, the dazzling light poured down on to the close-mown grass and transfixed there three monks. They turned to run, one tripped over his robes and, falling, clutched at another. A gun chattered above them and they both lay still. The third disappeared into the protecting shadow of the cloister walk.