by Andrew Tudor
“I’m well placed to convince him that he’s in danger and bring him to you under the guise of taking him to somewhere safe. You don’t need the details but, believe me, I can do it. I would deliver him to you on the night before the demonstration. Then it would be up to you how you make use of him.”
Rowlands looked at him curiously. “I don’t understand, Jonny. It’s been, what? Twenty years, more, since we were political allies. Then suddenly you appear out of nowhere and make me this unlikely offer. Why would you do that?”
“Oh, personal reasons, Jerry. It’s too long a story for now. Besides, you don’t have to do anything except agree to receive Curbishley.”
Rowlands snorted in disbelief. “Sounds awfully like a trap to me, Jonny.”
“No, it’s really not a trap. Why would the authorities want to trap you in this way? If I can find out where you live then they surely know, so if they wanted rid of you they could have made you disappear by now. Frankly, it’s because they’ve never thought it worth the bother. Your group is just too small and too little known.” Hart paused to let that sink in. “But do this and you’ll become the best-known radical group in the country, at least for a while. It’ll be up to you to find ways of building on that. Of course, they’ll be interested in you then and you’ll have to take measures to protect yourselves. But I’m sure you can do that, especially with all the new supporters that you’ll get if you play it right.”
“I don’t know,” Rowlands said, leaning back and staring up into the blue sky as if the answer might be found there. “I’ll have to think about it.”
“Fair enough. But don’t think too long. I’ll need to get things set up if we’re going ahead.” Hart paused for a moment, appearing to calculate. “I’ll come back here at the beginning of next week, Monday afternoon, about this time. You can tell me your decision then. OK?”
“Can’t I just call you?”
“No. You never know, they may well have a bug on your CommsTab. Best if we meet.”
Rowlands shrugged. “Right, Monday it is. See you then.” And with that he set off back up the road, head down, deep in thought.
Hart smiled to himself. The bait had been offered and he was certain that Jerry would take it. He was much too attached to the pleasures of the grand political gesture not to do so, a character flaw on which Hart had relied, recalling it only too well from their student days. Yes, he said to himself, I think we’re definitely in business.
So it proved when they met on the following Monday and settled the details for delivering Curbishley into the hands of the ERA. Somewhat to Hart’s surprise Rowlands made no enquiry as to what position Hart held that allowed him access to information, transport and, indeed, to Curbishley himself. But then, he thought, perhaps that wasn’t so surprising given that the only way he could have such access was by virtue of security clearance and a senior position. Rowlands had evidently decided that the likely rewards merited the risks involved, even if he wasn’t entirely convinced of Hart’s trustworthiness. Maybe their joint history had carried some weight after all – Hart was oddly pleased to think so.
Whatever the truth of that supposition, at 7pm on the evening before the big demonstration Hart was knocking on the door of Curbishley’s Homestead room.
“Good evening, Dr Curbishley,” he said when the door was opened, careful to appear deferential and to use Curbishley’s formal title. “May I come in? It’s a rather urgent matter.”
“If it’s urgent then I suppose so, though I am rather busy,” Curbishley replied, in the tone of a man interrupted while engaged in serious work.
“I imagine that you know, Dr Curbishley, that for reasons of security most members of the Cabinet and their senior administrators were moved to an alternative safe location earlier this week.”
“I certainly do,” Curbishley spluttered, “and I’m at a loss to know why I wasn’t included in that move. After all, my presence here is publicly known and I am a well-established senior figure in the scientific administration.”
Hart nodded agreement. “I’m afraid I wasn’t party to that decision, but I do agree that you should also have been moved. An oversight by somebody I suspect. So, given the imminence of a big demonstration nearby tomorrow, we’ve arranged to get you out of here tonight and to a DSD safe house. From there you will join the other senior officials at their new location in due course. Because of the earlier error, and given your importance to the government, I shall be taking you personally. I hope that will be satisfactory.”
Curbishley visibly inflated with self-importance. “I should hope so,” he said, “and not before time, Hart. I’ll have to pack up my stuff.”
“No need, sir.” Hart was struggling to maintain his obsequious manner. “We have people who will do that for you and transfer all your belongings directly to the new Homestead. You’ll just require an overnight bag for the safe house. Perhaps you could pack that now. We have to be on our way as soon as possible.”
Hart had to cajole Curbishley into speeding up the packing process as he hemmed and hawed about what he would need, but at last he was ready. As he went to pick up his CommsTab, Hart stopped him.
“Best to leave that behind, sir. These dissidents are pretty well equipped now. They will certainly have tracing devices which can pin down the location of your CommsTab. We’ll leave it here so they’ll have no reason to think that you’re anywhere else. I’ve arranged for a new one to be waiting for you at the safe house.”
Curbishley complied, albeit reluctantly, and Hart led him out of the residential area to his usual emergency exit. Fortunately they met no one along the way and, although Hart had prepared papers to allow Curbishley free passage, on recognising that it was Hart, the guards simply waved them through. Soon they were in the car retracing the same route across north London that he had followed twice in the past ten days. They were not delayed by any curfew checks, which was just as well as Hart grew increasingly irritated with his passenger, a man whose pomposity knew no bounds and who kept up a constant stream of criticism levelled at all with whom he had to deal. At last a relieved Hart came to a halt outside the ERA house. The front door opened – they had arranged that a watch would be kept – and Rowlands, accompanied by a second man, came down the path. Hart got out and opened the passenger door for Curbishley.
“Here we are, Dr Curbishley. These gentlemen will be looking after you now.”
Hart glanced at Jerry who gave him a half-smile.
“Indeed we shall, sir,” said Rowlands. “Indeed we shall.”
“Goodbye then, Curbishley.” Hart’s tone was suddenly no longer deferential. “I shall be off to visit my wife now. She’s not too well I’m afraid. Our daughter died, you know. Of the flu.”
At that, Jerry looked in some surprise at Hart, then nodded. “Goodbye, Mr Hart. We’ll certainly take excellent care of Dr Curbishley for you.”
As Hart drove away he glanced back to see Curbishley struggling ineffectually as the two men, one on either side, half guided and half dragged him into the house. For a minute he wished that he really was going to visit Jill to tell her about his revenge, but she was no longer in their family home. She had left to stay with her sister shortly after he had failed to persuade her to move into the safe haven, and they had barely spoken since. So it was an empty, unwelcoming house at which he arrived some forty minutes later, a place haunted by memories of his wife and daughter. He promised himself that he would not – could not – stay there a moment longer than necessary, but since he could hardly now return to the Northwood Homestead he had little immediate choice. He would stay in London only long enough to witness Curbishley’s public humiliation. Beyond that, it mattered little to him where he went.
After a restless night dozing on a sofa in the living room – he couldn’t face going upstairs past Rosemary’s bedroom which had remained untouched since her death – he assembled various items that
he thought he might need when he left the city, including two handguns with ammunition and a considerable quantity of cash. The bare essentials crammed into a backpack, he loaded the car with such food as there was in the house and readied himself to leave. He would use the car until its charge ran out then abandon it, he decided. It would get him well out of the city before he was obliged to continue on foot. By midday he was ready, setting off towards north London. He parked the car some distance from his final destination at Ruislip Common where the demonstration was to be held, walking the remainder of the way. There were large numbers of people on the approach roads and already a massive audience was gathered around a dais that had been erected on the common itself. Hart squeezed his way through the crowd until he was close to the front of the platform. There was a large wooden letter Z mounted prominently on it, perhaps two metres high, its horizontals painted red and its central strut black. The traditional anarchist colours, Hart noted, wondering if this was Rowlands’ doing.
As the waiting crowd swelled there was a growing sense of anticipation. Quite what they were expecting was not clear to Hart nor, indeed, to the crowd itself. But there was certainly something in the air, a desire for action, a need to insist on their significance in the face of uncaring and seemingly untouchable authorities. Finally, when the tension was stretched close to breaking point, there was some movement by the steps at the side of the dais and several people clambered up and arrayed themselves across the stage in front of the giant Z. Hart could see Jerry among them, standing at the back, his height making him visible to all. But there was no sign of Curbishley. One of the group came to the microphone, introducing herself as Rosa, co-ordinator of a well-known Zeno protest organisation and the facilitator for today’s speakers. She listed the assorted groups who were represented on stage and summoned the first of them to speak. By the time she called Jerry, the crowd had been subjected to several variously ineffective harangues from a variety of political perspectives and they were becoming restless. Cries of “Get on with it” and, more aggressively, “Let’s march on Northwood” were increasingly heard, meeting with a growing volume of vocal support.
Rowlands was clearly in his element. He was anyway an imposing physical figure and, unlike several of those who had preceded him, a powerful and lucid public speaker. His particular brand of generic anti-authoritarianism resonated well with the mood of many in the crowd who had by now lost interest in the pedantic political divisions being played out before them. Rowlands wound them up, used humour to discharge the tension that he himself had created, and then wound them up again. Hart was impressed. Jerry had always been an effective performer, but here he was really rising to the occasion and the crowd were rising to him, roaring their approval. Then, at a particularly climactic point, he raised his hands in the air to call them to silence. There was a hush while the huge array of faces looked towards him expectantly. He slowly lowered his arms to the horizontal, as if to take them all into an embrace, then spoke deliberately and quietly.
“My friends, the English Revolutionary Anarchists have a gift for you today.”
He half turned towards the side of the stage, arms still outstretched. The vast audience seemed frozen in place until the terrified figure of Curbishley, his hands tied behind his back, was pushed up the steps and escorted across the stage to stand next to Rowlands, who put an arm around his shoulders as if to greet a friend.
“Let me introduce our guest,” he continued. “This unappealing specimen is Dr James Curbishley.”
At this, a sound resembling a low growl emanated from sections of the crowd.
“I see that some of you recognise the name. For those who may not, this, my friends, is the one-time Director of the Porton Down Centre, the man who initiated and pushed forward the Zeno project. This…” he gripped Curbishley with one hand at the back of his collar, hauling him almost off his feet, “this is the man more than anyone else responsible for the terrible plight in which we find ourselves, for the illness, death and misery which has afflicted us all.”
Curbishley stared around in terror as the crowd howled its hatred, his eyes darting from side to side as if he expected someone to come to his aid.
“What shall we do with him?” Rowlands asked.
“String him up,” came a shout from a woman close to where Hart was standing, a cry taken up by others here and there among the mass of people.
“I know,” Rowlands said. “Let’s remind him of why he’s here, of why we’re all here.”
Continuing to hold Curbishley by the collar while carrying the microphone in his other hand, Rowlands gestured the group of speakers out of his path and made his way towards the red-and-black Z at the back of the dais. When he reached it he was joined by two men who took hold of Curbishley. Rowlands turned once more to the audience and raised the microphone to his lips.
“Z,” he said. “What does Z stand for Dr Curbishley?”
Unsurprisingly there was no reply.
“Don’t know? I’ll tell you then. It stands for everything evil that you and people like you have done in the name of the state. It stands for the unfettered desire for power. It stands for the utter disrespect in which you hold your fellow human beings. It stands for the disease that you created and loosed upon us, for death, the destroyer of worlds. It stands for Zeno.”
By now the entire crowd was screaming its approval. Rowlands nodded to his two comrades. They untied Curbishley’s hands and pressed his back up against the wooden Z. Only then did Hart see that there were cuffs mounted on the two cross-beams and realise what Rowlands intended. Curbishley’s wrists and ankles were swiftly fitted into the restraints and, when the two men stepped back, the crowd could see the results of their handiwork. Curbishley was spread like an X across the wooden Z. Rowlands spoke again.
“We reject you, Curbishley, we cross you out and everyone like you. Today we sacrifice you on the mark of your own terrible creation. On Zeno.”
By now there was near riot, those further back pressing forward to get a better view of the spectacle.
Then, out of the crowd came a frenzied shout: “Nail him up. Nail the bastard up,” which was quickly echoed by others until it seemed as if the entire throng was chorusing “Nail him up. Nail him up.”
For the first time in his performance Rowlands looked discomfited. This was not quite what he had intended, but now it was clear that the hatred called forth by his oratory was out of his control. Deciding that he had little choice, he leaned down and from behind the giant Z retrieved the toolbox that had been used in its construction. He took out a hammer and a handful of long nails, then turning to face Curbishley reached up to his left hand, placed a nail at the juncture of wrist and palm, lifted the hammer and drove the nail home. Curbishley shrieked as a wet patch spread down the front of his trousers and urine pooled on the platform below him. Rowlands turned his attention to the right hand and then to the feet, while the sound of Curbishley’s agony was lost in a great rumbling thunder of approval from the mob. Hart was close enough to see the victim’s eyes cloud over as he began to lose consciousness, and he thought that there was a brief moment when their gazes locked and Curbishley recognised him. But then it was gone, and Hart turned and slipped away through the tumult of people, both horrified and fulfilled at what he had just witnessed.
The tiny Chinese fishing boat was slowly making its way north in the Yellow Sea, some miles off the coast of South Korea. The area was pretty well fished out, had been for many years, but food was now in such short supply that the skipper had decided to give it a try. Maybe by now some stocks had regenerated. At that moment they weren’t actually fishing – the grounds for which they were aiming were a little further north – so while the skipper steered, his two surviving crew were taking it easy, sitting on deck and listening to a Chinese radio station.
All day the music had been interrupted by newsflashes recounting the latest developments in the risin
g crisis between North and South Korea. The Republic’s Supreme Leader had become increasingly aggressive over recent weeks, blaming South Korea and its allies for the especially virulent epidemic that had been sweeping his country. Today, if the newsflashes were to be believed, the level of threat and counter-threat had escalated wildly. Then, suddenly, away to the east in the direction of Seoul, the sky lit up. The two crewmen were blinded by the flash, but the skipper, who was facing the other way, only caught its reflection in the metal along the side of his bridge. He turned around in time to see a vast mushroom cloud ascending into the sky and, what seemed like ages later, to hear a deep explosive rumble. In the distance a dark line was just visible on the horizon and as the minutes passed he realised that it was growing larger as it sped towards them across the water. In desperation he swung the boat around to head west, away from the blast front and its attendant tsunami, but in his heart of hearts he knew that he could never outrun it.
Part 3
FEVER
1
From the welcome safety of Edinburgh, Ali witnessed the rapid collapse of social order in England. Much later she would recall it as a series of tableaux vivants, frozen moments representing a succession of terrible events, but at the time it was like watching someone sliding inexorably to their death down an icy mountainside. The images that reached the news sites were so compelling that it was impossible to look away from them, yet all too often Ali couldn’t bear it and was to be found peering childlike through her fingers. It was one such occasion that, in retrospect at least, appeared to precipitate the whole sequence: the nailing up of James Curbishley at the behest of what she could only think of as a ravening mob. It was an image that she could not expunge from her memory, coming to stand for the whole Northwood Riot that followed. The ‘Northwood Riot’ – that was the name given to the day’s events by the government-controlled propaganda machine – but ‘riot’ hardly captured it. It was more like a pitched battle and one that the government lost.
