Singleton's Law

by Reginald Hill

  She was shouting and Whitey put his hand over her mouth as the water from the shower died to a trickle. She bit his fingers viciously.

  “Christ!” he said and slapped her backside with all his strength. Angrily she turned to go but he grabbed her shoulders and pulled her back. They wrestled for a moment till Whitey trod on the soap and his feet skidded away from under him.

  He hit the tiled floor with a thump that knocked all the breath out of him.

  “You all right?” asked Hydrangea anxiously.

  He didn’t answer and she knelt beside him. Quickly he grabbed and pulled her across his body.

  “If the lecture’s over,” he said, “you can tell me all about it. Are you sitting comfortably?”

  “You could call it that,” she answered smiling. “No, the thing is this, Whitey. Our disruption programme is not going too well. Like I said, it’s been a surprise to everyone how much momentum the New Albion movement’s picked up. The kind of thing we’ve been doing has been mere pinpricks. And the Directors’ personal Strikers have been weeding out a lot of operatives, King’s and ours too. I don’t think we’re the only ones who’ve infiltrated the enemy.”

  “That’s dangerous,” said Whitey, suddenly very worried. “If they capture someone who knows the whole set up …”

  “Aha!” said Hydrangea, smiling. “Now you know what Sheldrake felt like when they took you!”

  “Surprisingly enough,” answered Whitey, “it was you I was worrying about.”

  It wasn’t wholly true. Perfect altruism is only possible in action, never in thought. But it won him a passionate embrace.

  “So what’s the plan?” he asked finally.

  “God knows. I’m too small a cog. But I gather it centres upon disrupting the Wembley Rally. That’s too public for any trouble to be hushed up.”

  “Disrupting it,” he repeated. The phrase was too smooth, too pat. It made him feel uneasy. “But how?”

  “All will be revealed no doubt. It’s getting reffing cold in here. Let’s go to bed and give the boys on listening duty something to gossip about.”

  The Wembley Rally was planned as the central public festival of the re-unification movement. Wembley had been chosen because, despite its obvious association with Athletic during the reign of the Four Clubs, it still retained much of its old image as the national stadium, belonging to no particular club.

  A grand parade was planned, a mingling of contingents from all the Clubs, accompanied by music, dancing, displays, speeches, and leading to two days of general holiday and carnival. The Wembley Rally would be mirrored at stadia up and down the whole country, while those not wishing or not able to attend would be able to watch the whole thing on private or public tele-screens.

  Whitey was officially involved here. The huge television studio built under the roof at Wembley in the early eighties was to act as the centre of operations. Whitey had been given the job of interviewing the party of foreign dignitaries who were attending the Rally. They were mostly European, though Exsmith was invited also, and Whitey’s task was to bring out their love of and respect for England, and their desire to see her wholly back in the E.E.C.

  His task as described to him by King was rather different.

  “We’ll have a lot of our boys planted in the crowd,” he explained. “They’ll stir up a bit of trouble, work on old inter-Club quarrels, that kind of thing. It shouldn’t be difficult.”

  “People could get hurt,” objected Whitey.

  “So there’ll be a few bloody noses and even a cracked head or two. For God’s sake, Whitey, we can’t just wave banners and sing songs.”

  “All right,” said Whitey dubiously. “Where do I come in.”

  “Well, that t.v. studio’s going to be pretty closely checked. But it’s essential that we have somebody in there when the trouble starts. We need to let the tele-viewers see what’s going on—this has got to be national, not just a bit of bother in north London. Also we want someone to let the people know just what has been going on behind their backs.”

  “So you want me to take over the t.v. studio?” asked Whitey incredulously.

  “No! We don’t want you blown. Our own man will be at the reception beforehand, Sheldrake’s arranged that. But he won’t leave when the other’s go to take their seats for the Rally.

  That’s where you come in. You’ll be rehearsing there before the day. Your job is to find somewhere for our man to hide so that the Strikers won’t find him when they check that everyone’s left. And we want you to leave this in the hiding place.”

  This was a machine-pistol with two full clips.

  “What’s this for?” demanded Whitey.

  “Look, how do you think our man’s going to persuade those technicians to do what he wants? By rational argument? No, he needs a weapon. And those reffing Strikers won’t be letting anybody with weapons into the Studio that night. Not even Management. So the things got to be hidden there beforehand.”

  Whitey examined the plan thoughtfully.

  “Who does the talk-to-the-people bit?” he asked.

  “It’s on video-tape,” answered King. “No sweat.”

  “And your man, does he know there’s no chance of getting out alive. Once they realize what’s going on, there’ll be Strikers all over the place.”

  “Once he’s dealt with the couple who stay inside the Studio, he’ll be fine,” answered King. “Those doors will stand anything less than an h.e. shell. He’ll have plenty of time.”

  “And afterwards?”

  King shrugged.

  “He knows the risk. And don’t be worried that he’ll give anything away. He’s got a set of dentures so full of cyanide that if he bit an elephant, it would drop dead.”

  Whitey shuddered.

  “All right,” he said. “Let’s talk details.”

  But his mind was cloudy with unease as they talked deep into the night. And though nothing that was said then or in the weeks that followed gave substance to his unease, the Wembley Rally began to loom in his mind like a festival of disaster. But for whom, he could not guess.

  Nixon Lectures: Fifth Series

  Audio-Visual Material

  5 (y) Extract from tape of pre-trial interrogation of Whitey Singleton (1992). Quality poor, but text authenticated by Whitey Singleton.

  Interrogator :

  You feeling all right now?

  Singleton :

  Oh Christ.

  Interrogator :

  Look, I don’t like this either. I’ve got to go home and have dinner with my wife and kids.

  Singleton :

  Try … bring … them … for … late show.

  Interrogator :

  Names, that’s what we want. We know who they are, your terrorist friends. We just want confirmation. To protect the innocent.

  Singleton :

  No names. Just me. Reporter. Anti-violence.

  Interrogator :

  Yes, but you incite others, don’t you see that? Anyway, do you say that you wouldn’t join in an act of violence against the Club?

  Singleton:

  No.

  Interrogator :

  No, you don’t say that?

  Singleton :

  No, I wouldn’t.

  Interrogator:

  And you wouldn’t encourage an act of violence?

  Singleton :

  No.

  Interrogator :

  Or condone such an act later? Even if you approved.

  Singleton:

  No!

  Interrogator :

  I think I’ll go and have my dinner. You’re either too clever or too stupid for me.

  Chapter 16

  Whitey intended to arrive at Wembley with an hour or more to spare, but he reckoned without the crowds. For half a mile around the Stadium the streets were jammed solid with people and it rapidly became clear they were not moving. The reason for the jam was easy to deduce from the huge tele-screens which dominated every street. Wembley Stadium wa
s packed to capacity and had been for over two hours. The crowds outside were amazingly good-humoured, apparently content enough with their physical proximity to the stadium and the excellent tele-pictures they were getting of the interior. All over the country, the excited commentators announced, people were gathering to view their screens, and many parallel ceremonies were being held at the famous football grounds throughout the provinces.

  There was no hope of getting through by car. Any vehicle on the streets was soon forced to come to a halt and almost immediately it was taken over as a vantage point from which to view the nearest screen.

  Whitey retreated rapidly and for a while believed that he was not going to be able to get through at all. But others were in a similar position and when he contacted the Television Centre, he discovered a heli-lift had been organized from Wood Lane. Even getting there proved difficult and he was last aboard the last of the three ’copters which were being used.

  The scene as they dropped down into the bowl of Wembley was almost impossible for the mind to take in. Whitey had seen the place packed before, at international football matches when he was a boy, and later for Athletic Supporters’ rallies. But this was the first time he had had an aerial view and also, he was certain, the first time scenes such as these had taken place.

  For a start everywhere was covered with people. Inside and out. Great surges could be seen in the crowds surrounding the stadium so that it was like looking down on an ocean in storm. The slanting oval roof of the stadium itself had been invaded by spectators who waved and screamed and hurled streamers at the helicopter as it sank slowly past them. It was like dropping into a funnel of people, a Dantesque concept which did nothing for Whitey’s peace of mind.

  As the helicopter dropped lower, the sound came at them from all sides, tangibly, almost visibly, so that the roar of the racing engine was taken over, smothered and finally incorporated in the roar of the crowd, too multifarious for harmony but too solid for discord. It merely was.

  The Stadium was built to hold a hundred thousand people. Tonight it must have been overcrowded by at least twenty per cent. The double crash barrier, the twenty-foot electrified fence, and the concrete moat, which provided the three circles of defence round the pitch, looked puny, child’s constructionkit things to set against these cliffs of human beings which soared away from Whitey’s awestruck gaze.

  As he jumped from the helicopter, he stumbled and fell forward, putting one hand to the ground. The turf felt warm and resilient. This was it, he suddenly realized. Wembley. The famous playing surface which had figured large in every schoolboy’s dreams fifteen years ago. Now he was on it.

  And out there, on the terraces, crushed and frightened perhaps despite the comfort of their fathers’ presence, were schoolboys to whom this was a place of pure mythology, like the new Greeks who were still awed by Mount Olympus but had never seen the gods.

  Looking round the walls of spectators, he was filled with a tremendous love for them, a desire to serve, and at the same time with a desperate sense of foreboding.

  “Papers? demanded a Striker who had come forward to the helicopter. Whitey produced his identification which was scrutinized with meticulous care before he was allowed to move on. Three more times he had to convince progressively more disbelieving officials of his identity and submit to an obtrusively intimate search, before he was permitted to enter the lift and ascend to the television studio which nestled against the stadium roof. ‘Nestled’ was perhaps not the right word. It was a large structure, made to seem fairly small in relation to the stadium itself but very extensive internally.

  Security requirements might be very strict, but there were plenty of people able to satisfy them, thought Whitey as he entered and looked around. It was not quite as crowded in here as it had been outside, but there were still more people within than the reception area could comfortably hold. He wondered which of them was King’s man but quickly dismissed the speculation. He wouldn’t be wearing a lapel-badge. The red light shone above the Studio door and through the glass panel he saw that Hobhouse, Wildthorpe, Mervyn of City and Leary of United were being interviewed. These men had come more and more into the foreground of recent weeks. The Club managers were too well known, had too long been set up as infamous bogeymen in neighbouring territories, to be readily acceptable at this stage. So the four major directors had begun to appear, still identifiable as fit and able representatives of their respective Clubs but with none of the psychological overtones. It was possible to believe in a Club union negotiated by these men.

  Whitey made his way to the control room where his presence was acknowledged with a harassed nod. He examined the bank of monitors. The picture Stan Linley, the producer, was presently using was a close-up of Wildthorpe who was talking in a blunt, earnest, forthright way which he’d been rehearsing for weeks about the joy all true Englishmen felt on this great occasion. “We’ve been Four Clubs and nothing else for too long,” he averred staring frankly into the camera. “Tonight we don’t stop being Four Clubs. No. That would be daft. But we become members of one greater club under one banner with one loyalty. To the New Albion.”

  As he spoke these last two or three sentences Linley, a brisk rather smooth young man, faded in a section of the spectators across which the camera tracked showing clearly the various colours, yellow, green, red, blue, still mainly segregated, but everywhere, transcending the Club barriers, was the lily white of the New Albion. The crowd was chanting now, or rather not so much chanting as calling, singing almost, the three syllables of Albion, drawing each out to a greater length, setting up a bell-like reverberation around the stadium.

  “When do I do my bit, Stan?” asked Whitey.

  “Christ knows, Whitey. The wogs have all been held up by the crowds, they’re trying to get them in by helicopter, but it means scouting round every bloody Embassy. Silly load of wankers. Let’s have a great big close-up of Wildthorpe in a moment. Then pull back to show them all. But would someone on the floor tell Hobhouse his nose is running, Yes. Quick as you can. Do you think the old bastard will have a hanky? By the way, Whitey, the Yanks won’t be coming.”

  “What?”

  “Yes. So it’ll just be our European chums. Better, I think. You can invite them all to be subtly nasty about Uncle Sam. Well, tell him to use his sleeve!”

  “Why aren’t they coming?” asked Whitey.

  “God knows. Some little diplomatic tiff, no doubt.”

  “No doubt.”

  Or more than that. Perhaps word of the plan had got to the Directors and Exsmith had decided to stick to the safety of his Embassy. Christ! how did it come about that the best the combined mights of the U.S. of A. and the Jays could produce was something as weak as this?

  Then another thought struck him. If the Directors had got wind of the plan, then perhaps their source had provided them with other information. About himself. Hardly likely or he’d be undergoing a short sharp yussing now. Or about Hydrangea. Chaucer he’d noticed in the crowd. But the girl had not been with him.

  “Give me a call if I’m on,” he said casually and stepped out of the control room.

  Back in the reception area, a move for the doors was beginning. Whitey glanced at his watch. Official kick-off time was eight p.m. and it was five minutes to now. The V.I.P.s would be returning to their seats in the old Royal Box.

  He made for the door and buttonholed Chaucer as he passed. He had seen little of the Wanderers manager in recent weeks and Chaucer did not seem overjoyed at the brief reunion.

  “Hydrangea here?” he asked as casually as he could.

  “What? No. I thought you’d have been knocking her off all day as usual and you’d come together. Perhaps she’s found someone else.”

  Chaucer pushed by with a short laugh at his own wit. But Whitey thought he detected something else there. A hidden knowledge. Or was he becoming paranoically sensitive?

  It was beginning to dawn on Whitey that another face was missing. Sheldrake’s. He cou
ld see him nowhere. There was a chance that he might have returned to his seat while Whitey was in the control room, but he could not recall noticing him on first entry either.

  This made things worse. One of the two missing would have been a source of faint worry. But both added up almost to certainty.

  “Do you have a light?” asked a swarthy young man in a black tunic. His voice was thin and nasal and Whitey guessed he came from City territory.

  “Sorry,” said Whitey, turning away. He felt his arm grasped.

  “In that case, perhaps you could help me find one,” murmured the swarthy man. “Mr. King said you might be able to help.”

  Whitey had forgotten about King’s T.V. expert for the moment and viewed him now as an unnecessary distraction from the important business of worrying about Hydrangea.

  Quickly he led him to a quiet corner.

  “Look,” he said in a low voice. “I smell trouble. Exsmith’s not here, I think at least part of the plan’s been blown.”

  “But not my part it would seem, friend,” observed the man, unmoved. “So take me to wherever we’re going.”

  “What’s the point?” demanded Whitey.

  “Just take me.”

  Something in the swarthy man’s voice made Whitey obey. He led him towards the control room, then down a short corridor to the make-up room. If this fool wanted to risk his life, that was his look-out. Except, of course, that he knew all about Whitey. The thought pulled him up short for a moment, then he dismissed it. If King said his man was ready to take the suicide pill or whatever it was, that was good enough. No, his major concern at the moment was to find a way of getting out of the stadium. With a sinking heart he remembered the huge crowds outside. Even if he could bluff his way past the guardian Strikers, it would take him hours to get through the press of people. The delay would be fatal both to flight or to any rescue attempt on Hydrangea. He was uncertain which came first.