The Camp

by Guy N Smith

‘We ’aven’t been stayin’ at any bleedin’ holiday camp, you can cut that nonsense out.’ Billy was white beneath the sweat which streaked his features. Frightened, bluffing, trying to appear angry. Attack was the best form of defence, one of his favourite sayings, particularly at the Hawthorns when the Albion were playing that defensive rubbish. ‘Just let us through will you, mate?’

  A hand closed over Billy Evans’s wrist, strong fingers that dug into his flesh, twisted it like a Chinese burn. ‘Just come with us, sir, and don’t let’s have any bother. Get it?’ The voice was menacing, the eyes behind the visor cold and merciless.

  ‘Just you let go of my husband!’ Valerie shouted. ‘Take your ’ands off’n ’im, d’you ’ear?’ She was lapsing into her local dialect as fear gripped her. These men were police, of a sort. Secret police. They had no right in Britain, the country was a democracy. Or rather, it had been. This was legal brutality. Her legs felt weak, they were so helpless and this crowd was just waiting to get hold of them. They might stone them, lynch them. One of the other policemen had her by the arm also, was pulling her along. She glanced behind her; the third one was holding on to Ruth who was not offering any resistance.

  ‘Are you arresting us?’ Valerie shouted and in the background she heard a burst of laughter. Bastards!

  ‘Just don’t make a fuss!’ her captor hissed threateningly in her ear. ‘We don’t want to hurt you.’ But we will if we have to.

  ‘Hey, what’s going on?’ A youth had burst out of the crowd, stumbling forward, his freckled face a mask of anger and disbelief. ‘What are you doing? Ruth!’

  Ruth half-turned but the man holding her dragged her back. ‘Don’t you take no notice of ’im, missus.’

  A face she half-recognized. It had been that man in the passenger seat of the car a few minutes, or was it hours, earlier. He seemed to know her. Maybe if she spoke to him …

  ‘Get back, laddie, this is none of your fucking business!’ The security man holding Ruth had half-drawn a truncheon from his back pocket.

  ‘It damned well is. I want to talk to that woman.’

  ‘Look,’ still walking as he talked, ‘these folks are sick. They’re out of their minds. Ill. Get it? They have to see a doctor and that’s where they’re going. Now, fuck off!’

  Norman Tong stood there, frustrated and helpless. He tried to pick out Jeff Beebee in the crowd behind but could not see him.

  And when he looked again Ruth and her two companions were being escorted into one of those drab buildings and the door was slammed shut behind them. They were gone, just spirited away. Lies again, pseudo explanations. Ruth was supposed to have gone home but she was still here, under some kind of arrest.

  The crowd was beginning to break up, drifting away. A moment of entertainment, excitement; three nutters but they had been taken into care and it was all over. The bingo halls and the beaches were calling.

  Norman heard the Maxi starting up, moving off. Jeff was going up to the garage to get his tyre pressures checked. So much for him and his offer of help! You couldn’t rely upon anybody except yourself.

  Gwyn Mace had dosed fitfully most of the day. He would have slept soundly if it had not been for the worry. Consciousness was slipping nicely from him when suddenly he was jerked awake, time after time. Lying there in the semi-darkness of the bedroom trying to recall what it was that was troubling him. Each time it took several minutes for him to remember, his problems seeping back slowly, every muscle in his body tensing.

  Robbing Peter to pay Paul, so to speak. Using the VAT money, fiddling the VAT book, skilful cover-ups. The cash was invested in Spanish securities, he would be ready to start on that holiday site next year with luck. In fact, it might be prudent to go to Spain and stay there before the Inland Revenue caught up with him over here. A big decision, there was Ruth and Sarah to think about. Or was there? Ruth wasn’t around, he seemed to remember her walking off in a huff. If she didn’t come back then that was one problem solved. Sarah was off somewhere with that layabout boyfriend of hers. What was his name? It didn’t matter. She was making her bed and she could damned well lie on it. All of which left the coast clear for himself.

  Looking round at his surroundings. Utility furniture tarted up to look good, he winced. What the hell was this place and what was he doing here? He hadn’t been well, maybe it was some kind of a rest home. He didn’t feel good, that was why he was here. His head was aching, all he wanted to do was to sleep. If only he could get things clear in his mind then sleep would have been no problem.

  Somebody was knocking on the door. He tensed and his pulses started to race again. Probably it was Ruth returned, forgotten to take her key with her, a memory like a colander. Or that youth who had come making a nuisance of himself earlier; or was that yesterday? Gwyn didn’t like callers; folks only called when they wanted something, usually money.

  More knocking, heavier this time, the kind that wouldn’t go away if you left it unanswered. Sod ’em, he’d better see who it was. He swung his feet to the floor, had to wait whilst a wave of dizziness came and went.

  ‘All right, all right, I’m coming!’ Impatient bastards! He zipped up his trousers, pulled a dressing gown round himself and tied the cord. Slopping across the floor in his slippers, catching a glimpse of an outline beyond the opaque glass of the front door. Two of them, it was impossible to discern details.

  He clicked the Yale, saw two men on the step wearing featureless grey uniforms, a van parked alongside the walkway. Gwyn read the large red lettering on the side of the vehicle – PARADISE HOLIDAY CAMP. He seemed to remember Ruth saying something about this being a holiday camp. Jesus Christ!

  ‘Mr Mace?’ It was made to sound like a question but only out of formality. The nearer of the two had surreptitiously pushed a foot against the door. ‘May we come in?’

  ‘What’s the problem?’ Gwyn was suspicious, slightly afraid. He did not like men who wore uniforms, particularly traffic wardens who watched from a vantage point and booked you for illegal parking the moment you had locked up your car and left it. Authority was a front for personal egotisms.

  ‘It’s your wife, I’m afraid, Mr Mace.’ They were inside the chalet now. ‘She’s rather poorly.’

  ‘Oh, dear.’ Surprise rather than anxiety, curiosity. ‘Not an accident, I hope?’

  ‘Oh, no, nothing like that,’ a pause, the two security men glanced at each other, ‘more of a … breakdown, I’d say. But she’s in good hands, it’s just that you ought to go and be with her. She’s asking for you.’

  ‘Give me a minute to get dressed properly.’ Gwyn heard them following him into the bedroom. Cheeky buggers! He didn’t like the way one of them stood in the doorway whilst the other lounged up against the window almost as though they half-expected him to make a run for it. He wondered what was up with Ruth, she had certainly been edgy earlier. Oh, Christ, he’d just remembered something else. She said she was pregnant! It had slipped his memory until now.

  Outside and into the van. There was a folding seat in the back which made it like an estate car. He noted with slight concern that the rear windows were barred. Probably for security reasons like taking money to the bank.

  A journey of five minutes or less, easing their way through the pedestrianized camp streets, pulling up in front of a low building constructed of breeze blocks covered by a thin coat of white roughcast. They helped him out, walked one on either side of him to the entrance door; the hands resting on his arms were, he hoped, gestures of friendliness and sympathy towards one whose wife was sick.

  The heavy steel door slid closed behind them. Down a short corridor, pausing before another door. Something buzzed somewhere and the door slid back. Gwyn felt his escort pushing him from behind, virtually shoving him into the room.

  ‘Ruth!’ He called out her name, had to look closely to make sure that it was her. She had a woollen pompom hat on her head at a rakish angle, winter garments and outsize galoshes on her feet that gave her a Disneyish appearance. His
first reaction was to laugh, to quip some sarcasm. And then he saw the rest of the room and suddenly nothing was funny anymore. Just sinister.

  Plain concrete walls with just one window high up in the furthest corner, barred like the one in the van. A single fluorescent strip gave off a bright light that made you want to squint. A table in the centre with some empty mugs on it and just one other item of furniture, what appeared to be a bench out of a recreation park placed up against the wall. And on this sat Ruth, huddled with two other people whom Gwyn had never seen before in his life. A man and a woman, they had to be living saunas in all that clothing, dejectedly sitting with bowed head, hands folded in their laps.

  Ruth looked up, met his gaze for a long time before recognition flickered in her eyes. A hint of a smile, her lips quivering as they stretched. She asked in a strangely vacant, expressionless voice, ‘Is it still snowing outside, Gwyn?’

  ‘Snowing!’ He looked at her closely. She’d cracked, there was no other answer. Women ran that risk when they got pregnant late in life, he’d read somewhere. ‘It’s bloody baking hot out there. What are you doing togged up like that? And who are these folks with you?’

  No answer. Maybe she didn’t know. Gwyn looked behind him; the security men were standing in the doorway watching him. No expression on their faces, robots carrying out some task for which they had been programmed.

  ‘Would somebody like to tell me what the bloody hell this is all about?’ He whirled on them, noted how their hands dropped to their back pockets. He swallowed, he could make out the leather thongs of truncheons. ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t understand. My wife is obviously ill but why is she dressed up like a bloody Eskimo?’

  ‘Just cut out the wisecracks and stop asking damfool questions!’ The taller man’s voice was suddenly menacing; they had both stepped back out into the corridor. ‘You’re going to stop here, all of you. There’s a doctor on the way and he wants to examine you, whether you like it or not. If you feel like screaming and shouting, then feel free. This room is sound-proofed, you can yell yourselves hoarse!’

  The door was sliding shut, a silent electric mechanism closing the gap. Gwyn leaped forward but he was too late, his outstretched hands met with cold smooth steel. A faint click and the two men were lost to view.

  Utter despair enveloped him, just standing looking at the plain unending wall and knowing that there was no way out. None of them had any choice but to wait until the doctor arrived, and that in itself was a disconcerting prospect. Somebody was crying, Gwyn wasn’t sure whether it was Ruth or the other woman. He didn’t care.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Commander was back, or possibly he had never been away. Nobody had seen him around but that was not surprising; you could pass him in the street and not notice him. A nonentity, he blended into his surroundings whatever they were.

  He regarded Professor Morton unblinkingly through his rimless glasses, sat awkwardly in the chair on the opposite side of the desk, a contrived posture of unease which might have lulled the unwary into a false sense of confidence. Tony Morton knew him better, felt the other’s presence like the threat of an electric storm on a humid evening.

  ‘It’s got out of control,’ Commander said, ‘gone haywire.’

  ‘You never know how experiments will turn out, which is why you have to experiment.’ The professor longed for his pipe but he never smoked in the chief’s presence, in deference to him because Commander was not a devotee of the weed. ‘It worked certainly, it has been an undisputed success. A few problems that can be ironed out.’

  ‘Let’s hope so.’ The chief was flicking through the lengthy report again, picking out passages at random. ‘I think we can safely say that the Jay case has been finalised. The police have co-operated admirably. But then we have these unfortunate … side-effects, shall we say. The Maces, for a start. When they return to normal they are going to dig the business up again. If they demand an enquiry then I have every confidence that we can present them with satisfactory findings. It is rather unfortunate that Mrs Mace has become involved with the Evanses. Personally, I think it was unwise to bring in her husband, stir up the mixture so to speak.’

  ‘We had no alternative. Tong is the fly in the ointment, we had overlooked him, we did not know that the Maces had booked their daughter’s boyfriend into a separate chalet. Administering the drug to him will be of no benefit to anybody, he is intent on stirring up trouble.’

  Commander was writing something in the margin, brief notes indecipherable to anybody except himself. ‘We cannot allow him to continue but that is my problem. Leave that to me. Now, the Maces …’

  ‘We need to experiment with the antidote.’ Morton watched for a reaction. ‘As yet it is untried on human beings.’

  ‘Hmm, yes, but I would have thought that the Evanses were the most suitable ones to try it out on. No come-backs, they just won’t remember anything. But the Maces will cause trouble. I think that is another one for the Department. All right, go ahead and give the Evanses the antidote, see what happens. Instruct that the Maces are returned to their chalet for the time being, I’ll give it some thought. Now, what about Dolman?’

  Morton averted his gaze, tried to speak evenly. ‘He’s disappeared!’

  ‘Disappeared!’

  The professor swallowed, needed a few seconds in which to compose himself. ‘He can’t have gone far, he must be somewhere around the camp.’

  ‘Why must he?’

  This was how the chief put you on the rack. He had his whiplash questions loaded up like a 20-rounds-a-second automatic pistol. ‘Our own men are on the checkpoint at the gate, as you know, sir.’ It was best to use ‘sir’ from here on. ‘They would not have missed him. Jepson is the best we have, as you know.’

  ‘He could have gone … over the wall.’

  ‘Yes, but I don’t think it’s likely. He’s intent on stirring up anarchy among the workers. The battleground is suited to his purpose. He’s around somewhere. We’re looking for him, I rather think Arthur Smith will be the key factor in locating Dolman.’

  ‘Keep me posted.’ It wasn’t a let-off, Morton knew that only too well. ‘Now the Holmans, interesting … we have a classic case of religion versus communism. Holman has already clashed with our communist agitator, it remains to be seen how far he takes it. Which is the most dangerous in society, religious fanaticism or the rule of the people? Two direct opposites. It is unfortunate that Dolman has gone missing but let’s hope that he turns up soon.’

  ‘I’m sure he will.’ Morton was not sure, he was trying to be optimistic for his own peace of mind. Muliman was working on it, he knew that much. The problem was that right now they could use half a dozen agents of Muliman’s calibre.

  ‘It’s this fellow Beebee who puzzles me.’ Commander was looking at him again, asking or accusing, you tried to work that one out for yourself. ‘Why is it that C-551 has had no effect on him. Is he unique?’

  ‘We’ve had problems with him.’ The professor could hear the distant clicking of Ann’s typewriter. ‘One of those whom it is difficult to snare. We set it up, and he orders a cold meal. The next day he doesn’t come in to eat at all.’

  ‘But he’s troublemaking?’ Damn the chief, he knew everything. You were scared to lie to him, just evaded an issue but he bided his time and pinned you down on it when he was ready. ‘I understand, also, that he has been having an affair with one of our own agents!’

  Oh, Jesus, he knew! ‘I am satisfied that it was harmless enough. I have spoken to Stackhouse about it, apparently she struck up a relationship with him in order to try to rectify her routine failures.’

  ‘And failed again.’

  ‘She has not had any success so far.’

  ‘Then take her off Beebee, put somebody else on to him.’ A pause, he was writing something else on the report. ‘No, on second thoughts, don’t assign anybody else. We’ll take this one on.’

  Morton blanched. Things looked bad for Ann, maybe the chief even kn
ew about his own affair with her. ‘Perhaps we had better suspend all future experiments until we get all these loose ends tied up,’ he replied without conviction. Christ, let’s stop it all now before the whole show gets totally out of control.

  ‘Goodness me, no!’ This was one of the rare times he had known Commander to express surprise. ‘We have only just begun! Carry on, I’ll tell you when to stop.’ He straightened in his chair, a sure sign that the meeting was drawing to a close. ‘Now to recap … the antidote for the Evanses, no problem there. Get the Maces back to their chalet and we’ll take them over. Well see to Tong and Dolman, and we’ll assign somebody else on to Beebee. Monitor the Holmans carefully, that’s a fascinating one, it is well known that religion is a substitute for machine guns for keeping the masses under control. God versus atheism. I might have to draft some more men in, the way things are going. But, overall, C-551 has been an unqualified success, Tony. Well done, keep at it.’

  Professor Morton sat at his desk for some time after Commander had left. It was when the other complimented you that you began to worry.

  Gwyn was angry with Ruth but tried not to show it. Thanks to her they were now in what was virtually a prison cell, confined with a couple of headcases and being treated like convicts. Damned if he was going to join them on that bench, he preferred to stand even if he was feeling a bit shaky. Whatever had come over his wife? She was as cracked as they were, thinking it was bloody snowing outside!

  He watched the two strangers intently. They still wore their winter clothing; at least Ruth had shed hers, apart from those ridiculous galoshes. They appeared to be asleep, leaning up against each other. At least that way he could ignore them.

  ‘Why didn’t you come home?’ He fired the question at his wife, saw how she winced. Her nerves were shot, all right. Like his own.

  ‘I … don’t … know.’ Ruth looked up. ‘I … I couldn’t find the way, couldn’t remember, and then these kind people took me in. They said the roads were blocked, the snow was drifting, and my only chance was to stick with them. My eyesight isn’t good, I couldn’t see properly whether it was snowing or not. I’ll have to go to the optician when we get home. Funny, I couldn’t feel the baby whilst I was away, but I can feel it again now. I must be further on than I thought, I think I can feel it kicking.’