August 21st
I have taken a room at a small boarding house in Ealing, dissolved among the directionless masses of an inner suburb. I feel that Ealing is an unlikely home for members of the Action Committee though their names and addresses are known only to themselves. As for my London cells, they are scattered through north and east and I only run a remote risk of one of them crossing my path in the centre of the city.
That is where I have been all day, studying faces, listening to scraps of conversation, detecting anger but as yet no anxiety. I have also tried to analyse the contents of the newspapers. They don’t let the death of Shallope alone. Columns are filled with wild speculation – for example that he was on to a method of exploding hostile weapons in their bunkers and was therefore assassinated by the KGB. Interviews with his colleagues are less sensational. He had not been directly employed on weapon production for several years and was known to be strongly opposed – in private life and common rooms – to the tactical bomb. MI5 may have considered him a very minor risk, but the extraordinary act of protest into which he had been so idealistically decoyed was beyond imagination.
I have the impression that editors-in-chief are either preparing the public for the news or encouraging the most fantastic stories because they do not want serious discussion too close to the bone. They must have been told the truth. After the release of Clotilde it would be natural for the Cabinet to have second thoughts and wonder whether the State had not surrendered to a bluff. Now there can be no more doubt. The news of Shallope’s death and an immediate call from Gammel to Scotland Yard must at once have filled Roke’s Tining with police and scientific experts.
Meanwhile London splutters with resentment at so much police activity. Cartoonists are having a field day with The Bowler-hatted Rabbits. The public is completely deceived by a Government statement that danger of lead poisoning from nineteenth-century water pipes has turned out to be more grave than expected and therefore advantage has been taken of the holiday season to measure the quantity of lead in sewers and at the same time test for radio-activity.
I am disappointed by the Prime Minister. In all his career there was never an issue he wouldn’t fudge or a half lie he wouldn’t tell. I don’t expect him to inform the people of London that they are about to be blown to bloody hell and call for a week of prayer; but a frank and courageous warning of expected terrorist activity without a mention of nuclear fission would have been more effective. Alternatively he might have blathered – and been believed – about proposed legislation to reduce water closets to one per family for the sake of social equality.
The streets are sprinkled with police cordons and plain vans parked over manholes. The rabbits who descend from them into the sewers are not in fact bowler-hatted but boiler-suited or white-coated. Traffic is disrupted, and insult is added to injury by the reference to the holiday season. Nobody but the master spirits of Whitehall would, say the public, consider London empty in August with an extra million of sightseeing foreigners flooding in and out of the Underground on their way to monopolising the places of amusement.
The people put in the foreground of their complaints this very minor example of bureaucratic stupidity because their hatred of the State, always extending its power on the excuse that it knows individual needs better than the individual, is unanalysed and inarticulate. Yet there are signs of genuine anger. The vans of the rabbits have been overturned and the police attacked when they came to the rescue. The doomed city is like a trapped animal. Something is wrong. It does not know what. It can no longer believe that the hands which push in its food – with twopence of – mean well and should not be bitten.
The social chaos which must precede the New Revolution is on the way to being created already. After another week, as lies and silences, hypocrisy and lack of leadership become obvious, discontent will seethe up from the collective subconscious; and as the police state closes down on the people the Commensals of Death will strike back, appearing as the defenders of the rights of the citizen.
The next stage is to let the people know the truth. Then we shall see stark terror, crowds fighting for the available transport and attempts to prevent by soothing words the general evacuation of the city. When it becomes known that Government, embassies and the herd of apparatchiks have already been quietly evacuated, indignation will be irrepressible.
The Committee may think it enough for the present to hold the weapon in reserve and exploit the fury. I do not know. But I am sure the final holocaust will never be used to demand power nor to force acceptance of social and financial policies. Such objectives are childish and unrealistic. It will be used without threat or warning to destroy the present for the sake of the future.
We gain a clean sheet and a precious interval in which human life is no longer subordinate to the requirements of profitable production. The State will revive, due to the use of its armed force to restore discipline, but also a still fiercer anger of the people revives. Then at last in small communities the ideals of the New Revolution begin to grow and offer an example of that content which can never be imposed from the top down, only from the bottom up.
The ideal remains my ideal but this short-cut to it, logical as it may be, is a denial of evolution. Even if there is no purpose whatever in the Universe and human life is no more sacrosanct than that of a chicken bred for broiling, I still have faith in both. Why?
I do not know. What is the connection between young Grainger who gave his life and the setting sun in Paxos? What has the herd instinct, which I assume is responsible for our acts of self-sacrifice, to do with pantheistic ecstasy? Is it this problem which the Early Fathers had in mind when they formulated the ingenious conception of a Triune God – a pleasant mystery to clergymen and horrifying to the literal-minded Mohammed. For me the voice which spoke to Job out of the whirlwind is more of a prohibition than the Sermon on the Mount. I must go on. I must not think it hopeless. I alone, the traitor, have inside knowledge. Not enough, but a little.
I think I should start by talking to Sir Frederick again. He is the only lead for me as for the police. As I see it Shallope discusses his needs with his supposed Ban-the-Bomb fanatics; but even they with all their contacts at home and abroad cannot lay their hands on a workshop where no curiosity will be aroused and his material can be safely delivered. Shallope himself solves the problem. He remembers or is reminded of the reverend baronet and Rake’s Tining. Thereafter Magma only requires the presence of Clotilde on the spot. The choice of Clotilde is easily explained. If she is recognised and questioned, the police are no nearer than they were before to identifying her political sympathies. But she must take exceptional precautions to avoid them. A more drastic change of appearance was required than mere fiddling with hair styles.
With Shallope dead and the existence of a finished bomb amply confirmed, Special Branch come up against an absolute blank except for Gammel. I imagine that half of them insist he is guilty and must be made to talk while a more intelligent half point out that anyone who has spoken to him for an hour must know he is innocent in spite of claiming to be a Christian Anarchist. In most countries that bold confession of faith combined with the fact that a nuclear bomb was constructed in his hospitable basement would ensure an unpleasant week with electrodes attached to his venerable testicles. I wonder how far the police will go in a desperate situation which justifies any means.
To approach Roke’s Tining is vilely dangerous. If stopped by the police I have to establish myself as the respectable Herbert Johnson before my fingerprints are taken and I am exposed as the best catch of the season: Julian Despard. I must also consider the risk of running into some of our own people who may not be far off. They could be expecting me if they are able to believe that I am mad enough to attempt single-handed opposition. Even if they think that I have only opted out my death is a necessity.
August 25th
There was no reason why an honest man on a fine August day should not walk up the valley of the Churn mak
ing notes on its unparalleled domestic architecture of grey and gold. I found security beyond anything in my experience. Uniformed police were at each end of the Roke’s Tining estate; on the high ground on both sides of the wooded valley were several chaps in civilian clothes who did not seem to be doing anything agricultural. It looked impossible even to get a glimpse of house or courtyard without being questioned, and I could be sure that at the bottom of the valley were multiple activities as well organised as an ant heap. The only way to speak to the reverend baronet was to go in openly as Herbert Johnson, or rather Mr Johns.
Though the prospect of that appalled me, there was a fair chance that Gammel and the publishers’ rep could arrive at mutual trust. I was at ease with him and he with me and we both knew it. I do seem to have the gift of warmth in human relationships. My cell, I know, was a happy team of friends. Conceit! But a desperate man is entitled to encourage himself by contemplating his own virtues.
I telephoned Ian Roberts, pretending that on my last visit I had omitted to tell him of a window display which my firm could provide. When I mentioned that I had dropped the Kelmscot News from Nowhere on Sir Frederick Gammel and that he had received me very courteously, I got a flood of information back with all that Gloucester knew and conjectured.
It appeared, he said, that the nuclear physicist murdered in Bristol had been working at Roke’s Tining and it was believed that Sir Frederick’s well-known anarchism had been anything but Christian; he was suspected of experimenting with the manufacture of bombs. Police would not answer questions. The local paper said next to nothing for fear of libel. What was true was that the Roke’s Tining road had been closed and all persons working in the colony of craftsmen had been ordered out after interrogation. He knew one of them well – a metal worker who had done some machining for Shallope and reckoned that he had been working on an atomic bomb. Bloody nonsense! Was it likely?
‘By the way,’ he added when he had run out of gossip, ‘I had a relation of yours round here only a couple of days ago, asking if I would let him know the next time you called. I told him you had just been here. Edmund Johnson his name was, and he said he was a distant cousin of yours. He knew you worked for a firm of publishers but not which. I gave him your business address. Hope it was all right!’
I thanked him and asked him not to encourage this fellow who only wanted to borrow money.
So now the Action Committee knew for certain that I had tracked Shallope and recognised Clotilde. I had hoped for a longer delay. It was more urgent than ever to trust my intuition and take the gamble of interviewing the reverend baronet. When Roberts, returning to the subject of Sir Frederick, said that if he himself drove a car – which he never had – he’d go up to Roke’s Tining and tell him that he didn’t believe a word of whatever he was accused of. I replied that I would give his message if the police would let me in.
I hired a car. The expense gave me a curious sense of guilt, for I had gone off with a Group Commander’s reserve of cash amounting to a couple of hundred pounds. Although the rightful owners wanted my life a deal more than the money, I felt an embezzler. What a profound and human absurdity! Conscience sometimes seems to depend purely on a child’s upbringing.
I was stopped by uniformed police three miles from the house and told that there was no through road. After expressing indignation and insisting that I wanted to see Sir Frederick Gammel on business I was allowed to go on. I felt more confident. After all there must be quite a number of innocent callers, some of them coming to lend support to an old friend as Ian Roberts had wished.
Within sight of the millpond and the blacksmith’s shop I was stopped again. This time I was more nervous than on half a dozen more dangerous operations. I identified myself as Herbert Johnson, offered my business card and driving licence and gave Ian Roberts as a reference. They had a telephone by the wayside and called him up. Meanwhile I am pretty sure that I was secretly photographed. After Roberts had vouched for me I was asked why I was using a hired car. I explained that mine had broken down on the Evesham road. Where was it? I had to lie without a moment’s hesitation and I was afraid they might keep me waiting while Gloucester police confirmed my story. But they didn’t. I was allowed into Roke’s Tining and shown into Gammel’s study by, I think, a policewoman.
He was surprised to see me. I said at once that Mr Roberts hearing he was in trouble had asked me to go up and see if he or I could help. News from Nowhere was of no importance. What on earth were all the police doing?
‘I am accused of allowing Dr Shallope, whom I believe I mentioned to you, to manufacture bombs on my premises. A nuclear bomb I suspect, though my interrogators have not actually said so.’
‘He can’t have done!’
‘I believe because it is incredible, Mr Johns. I am very much afraid he did.’
‘Are you under arrest?’
‘No. I should describe it as house arrest if such a thing were known to English Law. I appear to be allowed out as far as they can see me.’
I said that it was a pity and that one of my reasons for calling had been to inspect the gearing of his waterwheel again. When I described it to an engineer friend of mine he had said that it was impossible.
Gammel only hesitated an instant.
‘We’ll go and look at it. I don’t think they can object. I wish you could see it working but everything is shut down. Fortunately Roke’s Tining has a diesel generator in reserve.’
As soon as we were safely out in the courtyard I warned him that his study might be bugged; if it was not, it ought to be. I had to explain the word which was unfamiliar to him.
‘I think you have rather more for me than Ian Roberts’ kind message,’ he said when we were in the wheel-house.
‘Not here. We mustn’t stay more than a minute or they’ll get suspicious. Stroll back with me to somewhere in the open where we can talk.’
He led me to a seat in the garden under a splendid yew where we were in full view of anyone watching us. I told him at once that I was not police or police agent or newspaperman and that I needed his help quickly.
‘Shallope did construct a nuclear bomb,’ I said. ‘It was taken away from here inside an apparent drain pipe. It is now in London.’
‘What are you?’
‘I will call myself a Libertarian Communist. That’s not unlike a Christian Anarchist but without the religion.’
‘There could be no profounder difference, Mr Johns.’
‘You may be right, Sir Frederick. It depends what one means by religion. Outwardly I am a publisher’s salesman – Herbert Johnson, not Johns. I helped to land Shallope’s fissile material without knowing what it was. If you saw his crate arrive here you will remember that it was marked Graphite. For various reasons I cannot go to the police. In any case I could only give them the names of certain people who would get long sentences but could not help them – people who don’t know anything at all about the bomb, let alone where it is. I must find out where it is hidden. What I need from you first is the name of your club, a list of members and any other information you have been able to give the police. You can tell me to go to hell or …’
‘You are already in hell, Mr Johnson.’
‘Yes.’
‘Is this urgent?’
‘I think I have only days to disarm it or let the police do so.’
‘I want your true name.’
‘Under seal of confession, Sir Frederick.’
‘This is hardly a confession,’ he replied sternly. ‘Would you consider my word of honour? For several days nobody else has.’
‘I am Julian Despard.’
‘Thank you. I enjoyed your book. I applaud your choice of objective in Blackpool, but you took human life.’
I told him how the man Grainger who died in the explosion had given his life to save others.
We were talking too long and earnestly and this was all wasted time. Before I could start questioning him we were interrupted by the policewoman who said he was wa
nted in the dining-room. Housekeeper, staff and colonists had all been cleared out in case one of them should guess or overhear the true reason for the invasion of experts from Scotland Yard and Atomic Establishments. Policewomen were providing what was practically hotel service.
Gammel accompanied me to my car. The woman and more distant colleagues watched but did not interfere. His expression was cheerful and easy. I imitated it as well as I could. No one could have guessed the urgency of our conversation.
‘Can you return for a longer talk?’ he asked.
‘Not openly.’
‘I see. Yes. You must be in more dangers than one. But I presume that with your experience it is not impossible for you to approach the house at night?’
I said that I could not know till I had tried, and that if I were caught he would be hopelessly compromised.
‘You could say you intended to kidnap or blackmail me. Quite believable once you are identified as J.D.’
‘I will do that.’
‘Mr Johnson, the wiring of this house is far from modern. I can fuse my study and bedroom lights whenever I wish and often when I don’t.’
‘Police flood lights?’
‘On the road, not in the house. And my study window will be open. There’s that owl again!’
We had our backs to the car. Opposite to us, pale wings silently sweeping the lower slopes of the valley, was a fine barn owl.
‘Often out in the late afternoon,’ Sir Frederick said. I’m sure he’s woken up by his own snoring.’
His eyes and pointing hand followed the flight of the owl – up to a point. The police were also fascinated by it.
‘Across the stream in the shadows of the poplar. Up that hedge to the garden. Behind the roses into the herbaceous border. Lie there and watch for patrol, if any. Then to the study window – the one with the wisteria over it. Tap on it and the lights go out. About 11.30. Goodbye, goodbye, Mr Johnson.’
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