The Limpet Syndrome

by Tony Moyle

  “I thought friends called you Sandy?” replied Violet, moving deeper into the crowd, crouching down to increase her chance of hearing.

  “It depends on whether I’m still talking to one, doesn’t it?”

  “Look, Sandy, come out of the crowd. I’m worried about my sanity and I think so is that group over there,” she implored, pointing over to the group of school children who were pointing and laughing at this dishevelled woman on her hands and knees.

  They weren’t the only people to notice. Big Bobby was paying close attention to a woman bending down and whispering to a group of pigeons just across the Square. Anxious that someone else might muscle in on his unique and bizarre business empire, he crept slowly over to take a look.

  “I’d prefer to stay in the crowd for the time being, Violet.”

  “OK, I understand. You’ve no idea how long I’ve been looking for you, Sandy. You need to come with me, it’s not safe for any of us.”

  “Where’s Ian?”

  “He didn’t make it.”

  Bobby, with all the stealth of a piano falling from a skyscraper, was now within earshot of the two of them. There was no doubt in his mind that they were talking to each other. Avoiding any tact or subtlety, he stood up and shouted to his group of punters, who had followed some way behind.

  “I found them! She’s talking to one of them now.”

  “Sorry, Violet,” said Sandy.

  “Sandy, don’t go!” she shouted as he launched into flight with a number of others.

  “Right, you’ll all get a chance, one at a…” were the last audible words that escaped Bobby’s mouth.

  The small dart that was now lodged in Bobby’s more than substantial arse had stopped him in mid-sentence. His outstretched body was now falling in slow motion towards the ground, hitting the deck with a thunderous noise that drew the attention of most of the tourists in the area. More darts flew out around them. Another of Bob’s party hit the floor unconscious as one just missed Violet’s ear. As she ducked out of the way, the Square around her was becoming a military zone.

  Armed and uniformed personnel were aggressively sweeping the general public away from the area. Violet had not discussed with Agent 15 how he was going to pick up Sandy, but she had no doubt this was it. A painful surge of guilt spread through her body at the realisation that she was responsible for bringing this upon him.

  Lorries of men were pulling up in all directions. A dozen harpoons flew out from the top of Nelson’s Column, smashing through the masonry walls of the gallery and other nearby buildings. The thick canvas ropes that they carried unravelled to construct a web of nets in all four corners of the Square, until the whole area above their heads was covered. Escape by air or foot was now impossible.

  An inherent sense of panic struck the valley pigeons like the cranial lights had suddenly been switched on. Those instincts that had been subdued sprang back into action as they launched into the air in a vain attempt to escape the massive aviary that had been hastily constructed above their heads. The local pigeons stood around and watched. Many were themselves struck by darts and compliantly fell to the floor in a deep sleep.

  Along every rooftop, hidden snipers rained a shower of darts into the Square, where pigeon and person alike scattered to avoid them. Men, women and bird fell where they were struck and before long the whole Square was a mass of bodies. Amongst them was Violet Stokes, struck by a dart in the back of the head. Through glazed, empty eyes she wasn’t able to pick out the lifeless body of a pigeon that was far bigger than the rest.

  - CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR -

  VOTE CASEY

  “I’ll ask you again, Prime Minister. How do you respond?”

  The Prime Minister had barely registered the question. There were far more important things to consider than the stupid questions of some holier-than-thou, private-educated political journalist.

  “He can’t answer the question, Tristan, because he knows only too well that his policies on social mobility have been an utter failure. There is more poverty in this country than ever before and his turgid administration owes a four-year debt to each and every one of those poor souls that his party have conspired to hinder,” said another voice.

  The lights beamed down on the sharp suit opposite, his greasy hair glistening like a mirrorball. The grin on his face was a permanent blemish that attempted to deceive the viewers from the façade of his self-righteousness. There was an unusual lack of fight inside Byron tonight and the enemy smelt it. Uncharacteristically, he found this debate an inconvenience. A discussion rebellious in its desire to focus on anything of genuine importance. At least on the subjects that mattered he was acting, all Geoffrey Hitchins would do was dither. Surely the public would understand that this pompous, overprivileged moron would do a much poorer job than he had?

  The cameras had zoomed in on Byron in hushed expectation of the response. The lights burned down on his slightly thinning hair and a line of sweat trickled down his brow.

  “As usual, Tristan, you have asked the wrong question. The point shouldn’t be about our perceived shortcomings, but about our substantial achievements,” uttered Byron, finally revving up his verbal retaliation.

  Geoffrey scoffed loudly.

  “My party inherited a society utterly shattered by the very man who promises to fix it,” added Byron, fixing his gaze at the alternative in front of him. “The opposition are interested in government, but not governing. The only chance for the British people is to embrace my manifesto and when they vote next Thursday they must remember the years of hardship and despair they faced under my honourable friend here. If they prefer not to relive it, then their only choice is to vote Casey.”

  The answer tripped instinctively out of his mouth, a pledge repeated habitually down his career, conscious that the game being played was, ‘who do you trust most?’

  “If the choice is so obvious to the people of Britain,” jumped in Geoffrey, before the twittering Tristan was able to ask another question. “Then let him explain to them tonight, in honesty and with integrity, why he enforced a policy of taxation that inflicted terrible suffering on those in the most deprived parts of our country.”

  Byron struggled to remember the policy to which his accuser referred. He wasn’t in the right frame of mind for soul-searching and he certainly wasn’t prepared to justify his actions to an individual whose outlook on life made his skin crawl. A month he’d spent in manifesto launches, TV campaigns, speed canvassing, policy announcements and constituency coffee mornings. He was completely bored with the whole circus. Now it was all in the past all he really cared about was the future and making it a brighter one.

  “I don’t recall such a policy.”

  “I’m sorry, Prime Minister, did you say you don’t recall?” pounced Tristan like a predatory lion who’d just spotted a gazelle with a gammy leg.

  “See, he doesn’t even remember his own policies. This man isn’t just unfit for government, he’s unfit for anything. I thought your manifesto was called ‘Freedom for Britain’? Well, I suggest that the British people set this Prime Minister free from his undoubted suffering,” goaded Geoffrey, auditioning to the studio audience who clapped enthusiastically in agreement.

  “This country and its people will get freedom, I can promise them that. I will not stop until every man, woman and child in this country can wake in the morning with a stout heart and a clear head. I will work tirelessly to create opportunities for all, irrespective of what they look like, where they were born, or how they decide to live their lives. They will know what freedom from their pain really feels like and they won’t even need to work hard or long for it,” he answered with words devoid of spin or preparation. This was deep from the heart and no one watching doubted Byron’s conviction.

  “With respect, Prime Minister, these sound like the words of a despot, not a democratically elected leader,” offered Geoffrey, taken aback by the delusion in Byron’s response.

  “With slightly less r
espect, at least the people know where they stand with me, and the polls still suggest that the overwhelming majority would rather vote for me than a man who stands for elitism and the fortunate minority,” rebuked Byron.

  “Thank you, gentlemen, that’s all we have time for. A heated debate as ever,” Tristan interceded, before the two politicians ended the programme in blows. “Whether you are convinced by the arguments that you have heard tonight or not, one thing is for sure, you will have the chance to demonstrate it at the ballot box next Thursday. From everyone at ‘Election – You Choose’, goodnight.”

  The lights dimmed for a moment as the candidates and their host sat in the gloom watching the credits usher across the monitor. Angry exchanges had been substituted for whispered tones away from the public jousting of the live televised debate.

  “Well, that was jolly. I thought I just about won that one, Byron,” joked Geoffrey. “Shall I meet you later in the ministerial bar for a couple of whiskies?”

  “What?” replied Byron indignantly.

  “Oh come on, Byron, no hard feelings. You know as much as anyone how this works. These events are all for show, we’ve been sparring like this for years. Are we going to fall out over rhetoric?”

  “No, of course not,” he said, snapping out of his trance. “But I can’t tonight, there’s a meeting I need to attend.”

  Byron’s mobile phone displayed a number of missed calls, all from the same recognisable number, all demanding silently and impatiently for a reply. He got to his feet and strolled briskly away from the alien environment of the television studio and made his way out of the building. It was about ten o’clock in the evening but the bright full moon tricked the night sky into believing it was much earlier. Quickly he was ushered into his ministerial Jaguar, which was inelegantly mounted on the kerbside awaiting his speedy retreat. In the back of the car he slumped on the leather next to his Private Secretary who was clutching a clipboard that bulged with notepaper.

  “Andrew, you look like you’re organising a wedding. Why don’t you get yourself some technology?” said Byron, commenting on the black folder bursting at its seams.

  The man clung onto his clipboard somewhat offended that his boss felt his methods were lacking, even though he knew the PM couldn’t wipe his arse without help. He drew out a piece of paper and passed it to Byron.

  “You’re a fine one to talk. You thought a laptop was a naughty dance,” replied Andrew. “As you know, sir, I find working with bits of paper means I don’t need to be constantly talking to the IT department about how to fix them. Unlike some of my colleagues.”

  Byron shot him a dirty look.

  “Here are the details of your meeting,” he said, handing Byron a compliments slip. “You’re late, but then again why break the habit of a lifetime?”

  “I won’t need you for the rest of the night, Andrew. I’ll see you in my office first thing in the morning,” replied Byron, taking no notice of the piece of paper in his lap.

  “OK,” replied his assistant, hesitating before leaving the car. “Prime Minister, I’m not really sure why you are going to meet this guy. It doesn’t appear to have anything to do with the campaign and we are fast running out of time. Is he a donor?”

  “Of sorts, but it’s of no concern to you,” barked Byron, unhappy with his aide’s interrogational tone. “You need not worry about the campaign, it’s all in hand.”

  “But…we have less than a week left. How can you feel so confident when there is so much that could still go wrong?”

  “You just run along and do what you do. Let me worry about winning the election, I have done it before, if you remember.”

  Andrew dragged his gangly frame out of the car. Bewildered and concerned by Byron’s total arrogance, he watched as the Jaguar sped off into the night before raising his hand to hail a taxi. Byron picked up his phone, pressed seven on the speed-dial and waited for the response.

  “Prime Minister,” came Agent 15’s familiar voice on the other end. “It is done.”

  “So, you have him, then?”

  “We believe so, sir.”

  “I’m sorry, you believe so? Agent 15, you either do have the reincarnated form of Sandy Logan, or you don’t. It’s not hard to work out, there aren’t many talking pigeons in this world.”

  “It’s not that simple…we hit some complications. We had to bring in as many pigeons as we found at the location we were given. We couldn’t run the risk of him escaping,” replied 15.

  “How many?” asked Byron, a tone of inevitable disappointment rearing up in his voice.

  “Four hundred and fifty-two.”

  “Oh, not many, then. I’m slightly disappointed.”

  “On top of that we got Violet back, too,” he added, hoping this news would act as a silver lining. “On the bright side there are millions of pigeons out there in the world, at least we’ve whittled it down.”

  “What are you going to do with them now?”

  “We’ll do what we always do with prisoners.”

  Byron knew what Agent 15 meant by this. The Secret Service were an unsubtle bunch and had removed the word ‘diplomacy’ from their induction binder. They just went about their methods in the quickest possible way, which usually meant more brawn than brain, usually with a great degree of success. Byron knew that the unfamiliarity of the species would not stop them using their barbaric techniques to extract what they needed.

  “I’ll be there as quick as I can. Remember, I want no harm to come to Sandy,” demanded Byron.

  *****

  The moon that had shimmered so brightly on car windscreens and the glass buildings that surrounded the television centre now skipped mesmerically over the surface of the reservoir where, from the edge, Byron watched the gentle ripples of the water. Accompanied only by the calmness of the lake and the chattering of his thoughts, he stood alone. At his request his team of advisors and security guards had withdrawn, allowing him to meet his guest alone, unshackled from prying eyes and inquisitive ears. For some time he waited, completely still apart from the flapping of the winter coat that protected him from the cool midnight breeze.

  The reservoir was small in comparison to the ones that take up vast canyons and valleys around the country. This was not one of those encircled by picturesque postcard mountain ranges or sweeping forests. This one was in the heart of London, enveloped by high brick walls that kept out claustrophobic apartment blocks. Even at midnight, with only the light of the moon for illumination, all sides of the reservoir were visible.

  Byron raised his expensive wristwatch to his ear, confirming that time hadn’t ceased completely, only to catch the glimpse of a figure moving slowly towards him. The man approaching wore a similarly suspicious long coat, his head hunched into his shoulders, seeking an escape route from the icy breeze. When he reached Byron there was no warmth in his reception, unimpressed to have been dragged away from whatever activity normal people do at this time of night.

  If it wasn’t for the strangeness of the location, there would be no clues that these men were expecting the other, a chance meeting of two lonely travellers. They stood in silence, each waiting for the other to break it.

  “I thought we’d agreed there was no need for us to meet again,” sighed the newcomer.

  “I need to change some of our arrangements and be satisfied that you fully understand what is expected of you,” replied Byron.

  “We have been through it often enough,” replied the man, “I risk as much, if not more than you, remember.”

  The two men avoided eye contact, as if the chance meeting of their gaze might bring the same result of meeting Medusa. It was a good job that no other human was in sight of these two dodgy individuals. They couldn’t look any more dubious if they’d been wearing signs and winking insanely at each other.

  The second man was considerably shorter and older: the top of his greying hair only just came up to the shoulders of Byron’s six-foot frame. Dressed like he’d just left an expensi
ve gentlemen’s club, a gold pocket watch and chain swung from his double-breasted suit jacket that peeked out from his long coat, as his gleaming shoes were in competition with the moon itself.

  “Dominic, we need to move the date. Next Monday is too soon, I want you to do it on Tuesday. That will give us less chance of something being discovered before the election on Thursday,” stated Byron, his warm breath condensing in the air like dragon’s smoke.

  “What difference does it make, Byron? I have gone to great length and personal danger to ensure that both of us are kept ‘uninvolved’. If we change the plan now we risk losing that anonymity.”

  “Nevertheless, that is what you must do.”

  “If you want to change the date then I’m changing the price. Another one million on top,” demanded Dominic.

  “I find your greed ironic.”

  “I’m not with you?” he replied quizzically, his eyes finally drawn towards Byron.

  “The irony is that your deceit will remove from the human race the very motivation that has caused you to act.”

  “Well, you haven’t changed the world yet, Byron. There’s still time for some of us to profit.”

  “I wonder what the water company would say if they discovered what you had done? How would you be viewed, Dom? What would the members at your pompous gentlemen’s club say?”

  “I suspect they would raise a glass of whatever expensive wine I had just bought them with my ill-gotten gains and toast my endeavour.”

  “I find it abhorrent that I have to deal with an immoral mercenary. My only consolation is that slugs like you will never be able to act in this way again. You are helping to destroy the greed that you epitomise.”

  “Nevertheless, if you wish for me to aid you, then that is my price. You can keep your utopian ideology and do what you wish with it, you and the rest of them. I’m not interested in the outcome of your experiment.”