“You don’t need to do anything, Ben. We want nothing to change on the face of it. But I will be giving the orders. I want to move out of the shadows with my activities.”
“What activities?” Baines asked simply.
“Re-education of the population, military expansion and land reform.”
“No wonder you have been so worried about people like this Bell character. It is a sorry day for England that we are now a dictatorship, so far from the progressive government I intended. What are you going to do if I go public, if I say no and oppose this?”
“Just try it and see, Ben. I have some powerful allies now. I don't want to see you fall, Ben - after all none of us would be here if it weren't for you. But your good work has dealt me cards that I am not prepared to give up. The games have changed as it were. It seems my partners in the south see our little country as quite an important partner in the future. A small but important South American ally neighbouring an ever more powerful Scandinavian Arc. And the overwhelming numbers and size of their armed forces give me the security to thrive in this nest of vipers…a beautiful partnership, I think.”
“I take the increase in violence is due to your militias.”
“Probably, but we are now in control of all land in England and Wales except the border country, Cornwall and the Welsh West. We have conscripted tens of thousands of men into the army in the past weeks and we have amassed a war chest from our ever generous population. This has all been done thanks to my militias.”
“I hope you are right, Lucas; this is an educated country, people will not settle for oppression.”
“That’s where you come in, Ben. The acceptable face of the regime. The charm to spin my tough love to the masses; after all, we know what’s best for the country and the population.” Start turned to the room and asked their colleagues to leave. “I need to speak to Ben alone now.”
As the room fell silent and the two men stood facing each other, Baines spoke,
“You realise what you’re doing here, Lucas. Seventy million people will want to see you dead. This country is too established, too educated and too close to the Scandinavian Arc to get away with this. We’ll have civil war. Weapons and troops will flood in from Scotland and Ireland. Are you confident in your partnership with the South Americans? My view has always been that their interests lie to their west - India and China is where they concentrate. Don’t be left to the wolves by an ally who reneges at the crucial hour.”
“I’ll take my chances,” replied Start, but a pensive look into the middle distance betrayed the flicker of acceptance that what Baines was saying made sense. Baines took the opportunity to push.
“Your arrogance betrays your intellect as well, Lucas. Do you really think that we created this revolution, that we cultivated the popular opinion that swept us to power? We only jumped on the back of a population unhappy with the status quo - I developed our policies around what the masses were asking for. That same population will fight you when they realise what you are doing.”
“It’s done, Ben; I have chosen my direction and I will do whatever is necessary to retain power. You can stay with me or not, but I can’t have you opposing me.” His stare came to rest on Ben with an ominous focus as though he were reading Baines’ mind. Baines thought quickly buying time.
“I’ll have to think about it,” he said rather hesitantly.
“Of course,” Start said suddenly with a flash of his hand. He took a few steps across the room looking down at the floor, then he turned quickly and his stare landed. “But don’t disappear, I don’t need anyone else on my wanted list,” he uttered with a menacing grin.
Baines returned to his office across a silent open plan space where no one made eye contact and the atmosphere was frigid. He was humiliated and let down, but he was a natural politician and no thug. He knew there were many influential people out there in this country and across the world who would be opposed to Start. He needed to think about his next step, bide his time.
His office was dark, only his table lamp lit a small funnel of light through the air and upon his desk. He picked up the receiver on the telephone between thumb and forefinger and waited as a siren wailed passed his window. He moved papers on his desk into a pile and he looked at the small brass race horse that adorned his office. A present from his father.
As the din receded, he dialled the first number in his mind, but this time there was no gruff monotone voice at the other end, it went straight to answer-phone.
“Tom, it’s Ben, call me.”
He poked his finger into the receiver and he took a moment to think. Then, with a single nod, he came to a decision and began to dial a number with purpose. He got halfway through dialling when he suddenly slammed the phone down. He looked out of his office door, his eyes darted around the shadows, and a hundred thoughts rushed through his head; he grabbed his diary and he left the room as quickly as he could.
He could see Lucas Start through the glass wall of the boardroom; he was on the phone, alone, barking orders. He moved as invisibly as he could through the shadows of the office, out into the main hall and he took the rear stairs down into the empty street behind their party headquarters.
Rain was falling in thick lumps of water, a typical London drenching. It didn’t bother Baines, he pulled his collars up high and trained his eyes on the pavement; he didn’t want to be recognised. The streets were all but empty in the downpour. He walked for about thirty minutes calculating his next move like a chess master trying to understand the consequences of whatever options were available to him. One thing Baines knew how to do was survive; he had built his party from a marginal anarchist group to legitimate political movement. He had brought anarchism into the mainstream, stamping out the propaganda that the name signified and giving the average man a voice. He would be damned if Start leveraged his dreams away without a fight. But he also knew that only fools rush in. He had time to plan, to build.
By the time he decided on an imminent plan he found himself at Marble Arch, at the end of Oxford Street; he remembered the throngs of shoppers and tourists trudging the pavements of this famous street. There were a few people shopping but no tourists now and the whole place looked so sad in the dull grey. He walked to the nearest pay phone and wedged his files on the tiny table, holding them in place with his stomach. He took out his wallet and found a scrap of paper he had tucked deep down inside it over a year previously. He never thought he would be calling the number, but now in the driving rain he tapped it into the public telephone keypad.
“Yes,” came the answer after three rings.
“It’s Baines.”
“Well, bugger me, I hope to God you’re calling on a secure line or you’re a dead man!” The voice was like gravel - it belonged to Trevor Eastman, a ghost, the King’s personal head of security - one of the cogs that make the world go round.
“I’m on a payphone.”
“Well, what do you want? I thought Bolsheviks and Royals didn’t mix.”
“If I thought you were that dumb I wouldn’t have called. I want to meet,” replied Baines.
“Ok, are you in Central London?”
“Yes.”
“There’s a bench next to the boats on the Serpentine. Thirty minutes.”
The line clicked off and went dead.
Baines replaced the receiver and turned onto the road. The rain clouds had broken, some rays of sunshine were breaking through. His heart pounded as he once again shrugged his collars up high and trained his eyes on the pavement, trying to remain invisible to people on the street.
Marble Arch was a ghostly semblance of the frantic activity of previous decades. Like a black and white still from history, only a handful of vehicles passed the white marble triumphal arch. Baines skipped across the road threading between the traffic and crossed the flagstone pavement once busy with tourists, now empty. He made quick time through the open acres of Hyde Park, where parakeets lined the branches huddled from the recent rain.
Baines found the bench he had been directed to. As he sat down and looked over the Serpentine, the pedalos and rowing boats were tied up and all but forgotten, dirty and unloved. There were two characters strapping on skates where, in years gone by, hundreds gathered to skate, watch and socialise. As he mulled over the idea that this depressing outlook was in some way his making rather than that of the bad weather that day, he was joined on the bench.
The man who sat down, dressed in a tailored suit with overcoat unbuttoned, didn’t look across at Baines. He was well over six feet tall, well-built, with a handsome, clean-shaven face. His hair was dark and parted at the side. He was immaculately presented: cuffs which stood proud from his jacket no more than an inch, shoes polished, worn but perfectly kept, a Windsor knot in his tie seamless to cut away collars. Baines had never met him, but he knew this was the King’s man. There was a brief moment before the stranger turned and spoke,
“This is a little risky isn’t? Not everyone loves you, Mr Baines. What if you were recognised?”
“Don’t you worry about me, Trevor; I’ve avoided being recognised when necessary for years, and I have my own security.”
Eastman looked around, clocking the huge figure standing amongst the trees about forty yards behind them.
“Aha, I see Pierre is still with you.”
“He is, I don’t need anyone else…”
“I reckon you haven’t got anyone else or you wouldn’t have come running to me!” he exclaimed with no half measure of glee.
“I want to know whether we can work together.”
Eastman turned to him with an incredulous look. “What the fuck do you mean, Baines?”
Before Baines had time to answer, Eastman held up his hand,
“No, no, don’t answer that - I’ll tell you where you stand: your lot were democratically elected. The King is a figure head. He has no way of stepping in on parliament anymore. He might be able to appeal to the population, but considering your voters’ political leanings, I doubt he will hold much sway. Furthermore, you brought down a system which worked very nicely for this country for centuries. Everything you represent is abhorrent. So, the answer to your question is nowhere. Our working together is a last resort.”
“Look I’ve got no time for big bruising voices, a danger far greater than my movement is upon the country. I need help, but if you have no interest…”
“I didn’t say that, Baines. We can use you, but remember that the best you’ll get is the wilderness after this dark patch in our history is resolved.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere,” Ben replied, with an exasperated tone. “We both want to finish Start so a little cooperation would be mutually beneficial,” he added.
“We want rid of all of you, Baines.”
“Yes, yes I know,” Ben replied with some tedium in his voice. “What are the options going forward?”
“The choices are simple, we can take him out of the equation by force or by public opinion...the latter, however will be long and bloody. Force is the line we are currently exploring. You do realise that civil war is looking more and more likely. In itself, this is palatable, but the fact is that should our country end up at war with itself then the likely outcome is an independent Wales and at least Northumberland and Cumbria annexed by Scotland. That is unimaginable, a result that we must not allow, cannot even contemplate as satisfactory.” He took a deep breath and continued, “Even contentment in the cities is waning because crime is so rife, Baines. And the principal protagonists are your militias; it's as though the country is being governed by a gang.”
“And if we choose to speed things up with force?”
“That's where you could be more useful. The security around Start is so tight, he doesn't venture out of his inner circle and he is never seen in public so having you on the inside obviously has its benefits.” Eastman looked across the lake. “Maybe this will change now that you have been pushed out.”
“No, he wants me to remain as the figurehead of the regime so I will remain in the limelight.”
The two men pondered; neither had a plan at this stage and both were beginning to get restless- they had spent enough time on a park bench in the open. Eastman turned to Ben pulling a mobile phone from his pocket and handing it over.
“There's one number in there, Baines, and it’s secure; use it to contact me. You call me. I will never call you, so never answer that phone: if it rings, it’s compromised. If I need to get a message to you, I will do it another way. Get your thinking cap on, Baines. You may have caused this mess, but now you have a chance to help put it right before the country is torn apart.”
The two men stood and looked at each other, both naturally contemplating shaking hands but rejecting the idea. Eastman spoke again and broke the awkward moment.
“The situation with these land reforms is more far reaching than you think you know. Your vision of self-sufficiency needs a co-operative countryside. They’re the ones that put the food on our tables and dispose of our rubbish and produce a lot of our energy. So, now they’ve stopped playing ball, all your workers in the cities are beginning to go hungry, dirty and medieval. You can't take people’s farms and put workers on them who don't know what they are doing. You need the landowners to manage it.”
Baines knew all this. He couldn’t argue, he simply responded, “It wasn’t meant to be like this…”
Eastman continued, “I’m sure you were party to the pact he has signed with the South Americans: England is now, to all intents and purposes, a Brazilian colony. They are arming, funding and training Start’s rapidly growing army. Were you any good at history?”
Baines, humiliated by the freedom he had given Start, made no comment.
“At School, did you like History?” Eastman said slowly with a supercilious tone.
“Don’t fuck around, Eastman.”
“The Vietnam War and the arms race were the catalysts for the flower power movement - you know, everyone dancing around on acid, screwing each other the nice way. Well, your era will go down as the antithesis of that. Your lovey-dovey, super-righteous ideology has spawned a tyrant. Who has unleashed a level of bloodshed and degree of control over people the like of which has not been seen since ISIS rolled into Syria…and we all know what happened to them.”
“I can see what’s happening.” Baines eyes were sharp, determined, “Don’t underestimate me, Eastman. I’ll find a way to put this right.”
“Ben, most of the people who would react are on the payroll. His first rule is the mixed squads, so your educated followers are now serving in military units next to violent thugs and criminals who are benefiting from the brutality of the regime. Fear keeps the peace better than any other form of control. Start uses those who enjoy the lawlessness to maintain the terror through the rank and file of the NSO, as well as that of the general population. I always told you there are too many variables in society for idealism.”
“You just stick to creeping around in the shadows; I’ll handle Lucas. You remember one thing: it was me. This revolution. It was me they followed. Not you. Not Start, no one else.”
“Maybe, but the last twenty years was nothing in comparison to the mess you’ve made now.”
He turned to walk away and called back over his shoulder,
“You make sure you call me; do the right thing.”
Ben watched him walk away; as he reached the road a black Jaguar car pulled up fast and he hopped into the rear seat. The car sped off - he could hear the large engine growl as it left the curb. He stood for a moment, then looked around quickly as if remembering that he was entirely exposed. He looked at the phone in his hand, slipped it into his coat pocket and began the walk back to his office.
* * * * *
Rain beat upon their faces as Amber and Stuart roared down the country roads on his powerful quad bike. Stuart drove and Amber rested comfortably behind him with their luggage giving her a back rest. The gear consisted merely of a full jerry can, a holdall
full of weapons, some dry clothes and a small amount of food. Both of them wore ponchos to protect from the driving rain, which flapped behind them like the capes of Victorian horsemen.
When they reached the giant concrete structure of the border wall, the crossing point which Amber and her father had used days earlier was now an enormous grey barrier so they followed along the foot of the wall heading west where the land had been cleared by the construction workers. After about five miles the evidence of building became more apparent and they both knew they were getting close to the end of the wall as it stood so far. Stuart hammered on and the bike chewed up the sludgy dirt until the deep treads bit into traction. He could see the dull grey of the wall disappear up ahead and he twisted the throttle to its full extent.
The super-fast bap-bap-bap of the engine resonated through the trees and their headlight betrayed their position; there was no stealth in this mission. Stuart had the bike drifting in a wide left hand arc around the end of the wall and they disappeared on the southern side of the concrete, on English soil and with thousands of tonnes of masonry between them and the Scottish border.
They were travelling with speed and were twenty yards from the end of the wall when the flood lights fired up and illuminated the whole area. Instantly blinded by the sudden glare Stuart momentarily relaxed his grip on the throttle then pointed the handle bars straight and opened it up once again. They could hear some sort of voice over a loud hailer but couldn’t hear the words. They disappeared into the darkness of the woodland along the wall and no one gave chase.
A short while later they slipped out onto the tarmac next to the old stone bridge. The rain was easing off, but the night was pitch black, the cloud cover was thick and dark as a theatre drape. The road was smooth and fast compared to the woodland trails and the heavy peat soil of the open country. Amber hunkered down in the cold of the night, exasperated by the speeding bike. Stuart made the perfect windbreak, his solid frame unmoved by the chill or the ups, downs and shifting camber of the undulating road. Like a machine, he looked south.
The Border Reiver Page 12
