An Uncivilised Election

by John Creasey

  With Gideon was Ray Cox, recently promoted from deputy to commander of the Uniform branch. He was a young, eager, aggressive man, whom the sight below subdued. He kept giving radio orders to the ground. Now and again on the perimeter of the crowd fireworks exploded, and Cox ordered the arrest of everyone who let one off. Movement below showed where he was obeyed. He gave orders where to reroute buses and where to halt private cars outside the centre of the metropolis; that was now the only thing to do.

  Once Cox said, “Look at the river, George.”

  Gideon had already seen the river, teeming with a fleet of small boats, like a Dunkirk by night in the heart of London. Hundreds of them, thousands of them, moved quietly and steadily up- and downstream toward Westminster.

  “Look at those bridges!”

  Westminster Bridge and Lambeth, Hungerford Bridge and even Waterloo, were thick with masses of people. The flashes of fireworks became more frequent, the flashes of cameras up here and down below were brighter, but there was no sign of panic or of fear and resentment. In the distance a few rockets soared, but that was all.

  “I’ve seen everything now,” Cox said in a pause.

  “I hope you have,” said Gideon. “Can you go nearer Parliament Square?”

  “I’m going.”

  “And a bit lower?”

  “Yes.”

  As they went, he saw that the marchers were sitting in Parliament Square, along Whitehall, in front of the Abbey, along the Embankment, even on Westminster Bridge and Lambeth too. The pace of the marchers in the rear was slowing down, because those in front could go no farther. There were only stragglers now; the march was nearly done, the demonstration was soon to come.

  “Let’s put the searchlight on the middle of the crowd,” said Gideon.

  He believed that he knew what he was going to see, but the sight of it would stay with him to his dying day. In the middle of the square was a small clearing, and in the middle of the clearing a group of people were standing on a platform, made, if he could see aright, on a trestle table. The searchlight, switched on so suddenly, shone straight onto the group in the centre. There was Moncrieff and the chairmen of the other committees. There was Lady Wallis. There were the executives of the Battle Committee. And there was Amanda Tenby, in black, standing still as a statue made of ebony, with the pallor of her upturned face and of her hands like carved alabaster. In that moment, with the roar of the helicopter in his ears and the stillness of the silence below, she seemed like a modern Joan of Arc burning in the white-hot fire of flashlights and searchlights.

  The beam passed over, and touched thousands of the squatting marchers, who did not look up. They sat in awed expectancy, as if they knew Amanda would speak to them in the clear small voice of truth.

  Gideon, terribly afraid but convinced of what would follow, turned round to look again at Amanda and to make sure that Ronn was with her.

  He could not see Ronn.

  “Go over once again, will you?”

  “Yes,” said Cox.

  The helicopter described its wide circle and went back; the beam of blinding white shone on Amanda once again, and the others on the platform, but Ronn was not there. For the first time Gideon began to hope. How could Ronn, how could any man, force his way through the denseness of that crowd? He saw the rows of police lining the empty roads. Then he saw the cars coming along the roads, saw men spring out of them and knew that some of Quatrain’s men had arrived. All this – his greatest anxiety so short a time ago – was now the least of his worries. There would be some scuffles, but not with the F.F.P. demonstrators in the middle of those hundreds of thousands.

  Then the helicopter’s radio crackled.

  “Hallo,” said Uniform. “Helicopter Metro 1 speaking.” There was a pause. “Yes—Yes, he’s here.” He handed Gideon the microphone.

  Daniel Ronn knew he must have sufficient time to get from Paddington to Parliament Square, but not too much, for every unnecessary minute added to the danger that he might be caught. He did not think it likely, for he was wearing a sandy-coloured beard and a moustache, he had thickened his waist with sheets so that he looked tubby, and he walked with a slight limp. At eight o’clock, an hour before he was due at the demonstration, he stepped off a bus and walked into Paddington Station, heading for the left-luggage office. He saw the uniformed police in strength, and knew that there were a lot of plain clothes men, but they were concentrated at the barriers and the ticket offices. He walked boldly across to the big counter, took out his ticket, and presented it.

  “It’s a black record player,” he said. “I brought it in in the afternoon.”

  He stood very still as the attendant turned away, for he knew he was very, very close to everything he had ever wanted to do. The man went toward the spot where the precious box was resting. He took it down. Ronn moistened his lips. The man brought the case, and dumped it heavily in front of Ronn, who thought: The fool, what does he think it is? A sack of potatoes?

  “That the one, sir?”

  “Yes.”

  “Two shillings, please.”

  Ronn said, “That’s plenty.” He took two shillings out of his pocket with one hand, and picked up the case with the other. His heart was thumping. He walked toward the main exit, face flushed with triumph; nothing could stop him now. He could make all England, he could make the whole world, realize what it would feel like to be under the immediate threat of nuclear explosion in the heart of a great city. As he passed beneath the arch leading to the taxi stand, a man appeared on either side of him.

  “Good evening, sir.”

  “Excuse me, sir, I wonder if we can have a look in that case?”

  Ronn froze. “No, you can’t.” His throat went so dry that he felt as if he were choking. “What right have you to ask?”

  “We’re police officers, sir, making a routine check. We won’t keep you a minute.” One man touched Ronn’s fingers where they were round the handle of the case. “If you will please—”

  Ronn kicked him, swung his left arm round to strike the other man, and tried to leap forward, but he did not make even a yard. He tripped over an outstretched foot and crashed down, and the unit crashed with him. As he fell, he twisted round, his face distorted, and he shouted: “That will kill you! Don’t touch it, it will kill you!”

  “Well,” one man said, “it didn’t kill you, did it? May I have your keys, please?”

  “Get me Commander Gideon, on Helicopter Metro 1,” Parsons said in a clear, ringing voice.

  That was the moment when Amanda Tenby began to talk over a loudspeaker, her voice inaudible to Gideon and doubtless to countless others, but as she raised her hands the people rose. Rising, they took the banners and posters and lifted the placards from their bodies, holding them high so that everyone above could read; perhaps they were hoping that the heavens had eyes too.

  On one, on a dozen, on a hundred, Gideon read:

  VOTE TO BAN THE BOMB

  The leaders of the great parties, all of whom had tramped the country by air and road and rail, who had become hoarse while addressing meetings morning, noon and night, who had known moments of exhaustion, of fear, of hope, of despair, were at last at home on this eve of their campaigning. Each was in his own constituency, speaking to electors whose votes he felt sure would come to him; the time of persuasion had passed. Each man, worn out though he was, felt the stimulus of a great crowd, of the deafening cheers, of clapping, even of the occasional boo from the ready voices of opponents not cheering their own candidate on.

  Each leader spoke of nuclear disarmament. The leader of the party which had laid down the burden of government after so many years, and was eager to take it up again, spoke to a mass meeting where thousands roared their loyalty and thousands more thronged outside at overflow meetings, able to hear the voice if not the familiar face and figure.

  “Mr. Chairman, my lords, my ladies, ladies and gentlemen,” he said in a firm, clear voice. “I want there to be no doubt about where th
is great party stands, nor where I stand, in the matter of nuclear warfare. We abhor the thought of it. I abhor the thought of it. Nothing we can do and nothing I can do will be left undone to banish the horror from the realm of mankind.

  “But—and I speak from my heart and, I believe, I speak for the heart of this nation— “

  “When this hideous bomb is banned, it must be by all who possess it now, and in such a way that none who might possess it in the future can ever make use of it. To me, that is the only way to the peace mankind desires.”

  In Parliament Square there was the hush of a multitude waiting for the moment of revelation, which did not come.

  In eighteen hundred halls up and down the land there was a tumult of acclamation.

  19: Polling Day

  “It isn’t likely to get into the newspapers,” Gideon said to Kate next morning. “The national dailies and the national news agencies have been asked to keep the news quiet, in the public interest, and I think they will – until the sensation’s died down anyhow. If Ronn had threatened a demonstration with the unit, God knows what would have happened. And if Travaritch had got away, we couldn’t have kept it quiet. I think we can now. Or let’s say I hope we can.” He looked tired but relaxed as he sat in his shirt sleeves at the kitchen table. “I’ll never know whether the Security men would have done a better job if we’d done ours better, and I know the ghost of this mistake will stay with me, Kate. But at least it’s only a ghost.”

  Kate didn’t speak.

  “The remarkable thing was the way Amanda Tenby behaved when she realized what had happened,” Gideon said. “We had the news of Ronn’s arrest broadcast to the crowd. Only one or two of them knew the significance of it, of course, and for all I know Amanda Tenby was the only one who really knew the lot. She took the loudspeaker, and asked them to sit down again, without moving or speaking, for half an hour. The Chairmen let her handle the situation, and—well, look at that.”

  The headline in the Daily Globe, on the table, ran:

  THE SILENT VOTE

  In the heart of London last night, on the eve of what might well prove to be the most momentous election in the nation’s history, one of the most remarkable demonstrations of the power of silent protest was manifest. A crowd of at least two hundred thousand people (see the magnificent photographs on page 4) walked to the home of the Mother of Parliaments, and sat in silence, while their banners proclaimed their message: VOTE TO BAN THE BOMB.

  This newspaper does not agree with the policy of the Battle Committee, the Fight for Peace group, or any other such group. But it believes that, when any great weight of public opinion is demonstrated with the dignity and power that was shown last night, the foundations of a world at peace are slowly but surely being laid.

  “What does that mean, dad?” asked Malcolm, coming in and knotting his tie.

  Gideon read it again, aloud. “I think it means that with a bit of luck the world will one day be a better place,” he said. He was acutely aware of the inadequacy of the answer, but it seemed to satisfy Malcolm. “Why aren’t you at school today?”

  “Don’t be a drip,” Malcolm retorted. “They’ve taken over the school as a polling station. All the masters and mistresses are supervising, or whatever they call it.”

  “They’re poll clerks, are they?”

  “That’s right. Mum, can I have some sandwiches and go up to Wimbledon Common for the day?”

  “Yes,” said Kate.

  “Kate,” said Gideon, “I’ll be off. Coming along to vote? The booth’s on your way.”

  “I’ll slip in when I’m out shopping,” Kate replied.

  Gideon took his own car out, was recognized by the uniformed policeman outside the booth, went in, cast his vote, and came out again, all with an odd feeling of anticlimax. He drove along to the Yard, wondering what kind of poll it would be; on this fine day it might well be a big one. Outwardly it was an ordinary day, with no more and no fewer people in the streets, and traffic was certainly as thick as ever. As he threaded his way through it he thought of Ronn, who had been charged with being in possession of stolen goods, and who would doubtless soon be charged with murder. Ronn had refused to implicate Amanda Tenby or anybody else, and the questioning of them all would soon begin; it might well be a long and wearisome business. There was never any end to police work, and there was not likely to be an end to the campaign for Nuclear Disarmament now. He wondered how many of the marchers had been true believers, how many had gone along for the ride, how many had gone simply because it was an Eve of Poll rally. He could not fail to be impressed himself, although it had not shaken his own conviction that the nuclear bomb was in fact a deterrent, that without it there would one day be war, with it the era of peace might well begin.

  But he could understand others believing like Amanda Tenby and Ronn and Lady Wallis. Lady Wallis – she might be worth special attention, the blood of one of the old suffragette families ran in her veins.

  He mustn’t forget to tell Parsons that …

  Scott Hannaford went to cast his vote, came back and read his newspapers. The report that Dr. Fairweather was recovering put new life into him. He had made no attempt to get a locum’s job since the attack on Fairweather, but there couldn’t be more than one idiot like Wilcox, could there? It would be safe to have another go in a few days. He got up and went to his bathroom, where there were two cabinets. In one were bottles of hair dye, rinses, eye black, some little cylinders of cotton wool, some cheek pads, both suction and solid. He took down the dye marked Rich Auburn.

  Effie Wilcox had never voted before, and she would not have taken the trouble this time but for the fact that Fred wanted her to. She went out into the bright morning. A big policeman outside the Baptist Church hall, two streets away, was talking to a little man wearing a red and white rosette – the very man she was going to vote for! She looked at him shyly, and he called out: “I hope you pick the winner!”

  “I’m sure I will,” she said. “I’m going to vote for you.”

  The hall, usually so bleak and bare, looked different from her recollection of her Sunday-school days and Bible class meetings. Wooden frames and black fabric made little booths where the shiny black ballot boxes stood. There were four tables with two people at each, and two men were standing about. It was all so strange: like going to a funeral.

  She shivered.

  “What’s your number, miss, please?” A clerk smiled up at her.

  She looked down at the Labour candidate’s election address, which gave her all she required, including a facsimile of the ballot paper.

  “Nine-one-seven-three,” she said.

  The clerk checked over the electoral register, found her name, ruled it off in ink, and gave her a ballot paper. She took this behind a black drape, put a clear X opposite Fred’s candidate, popped it into the box, and went off. No one took any notice of her. The candidate had gone. She only wished Fred could cast his vote too. She bought a lamb chop for her supper, went home, and read all about the big demonstration. She did not think much about it, but the paragraph about Dr. Fairweather made her heart leap. Thank God, thank God!

  Her solicitor, one her mother had recommended, said that the circumstances would be taken into account, and it shouldn’t go too badly with Fred. The baby would be born while Effie was on her own, of course, but loneliness wouldn’t last long. A year perhaps? Or two or three. It didn’t make all that difference, because she had seen Fred and knew that he loved her. He also knew that if he was in prison for twenty years, she would be waiting for him when he came out. She would have to move from the apartment soon and go back to her mother and afterward would need a job. But her mother would help with the baby.

  Lemaitre was at work, brisk as usual, this morning in a pale-brown suit and a dark-brown tie.

  “You voted yet, George?”

  “Yes. Haven’t you?”

  “I will on my way home. I’ve seen everybody on the list, by the way. The Old Man says he’ll be cal
ling you later. Rogerson’s not coming in – had a nasty heart spasm last night, his wife says – he can’t last much longer, can he? Parsons’s been at Ronn again, but Ronn won’t say a word. Stubborn devil. Oh, Curson rang up – he’s found Brown, the husband of the skeleton, and he – Curson, I mean – thinks that’s sewn up all right. Oh, Ripple’s having a go at Ronn now. There were another three burglaries last night, and one of the candidates’ wives caught a thief and got kicked in her shins. Pity we couldn’t pull Mason in, but his alibi seemed all right. Paterson rang up from the House of Commons, and says he’ll be looking in. Got a bit of a poser from the Bank of England – they’ve some five-pound notes they’re not very happy about. Body of a twenty-year-old man was found in the river at Wapping, head bashed in. Wasn’t a very full night last night, though.” He looked out the window. “Wonder how the voting’s going. Not that it makes much difference to us, we’ll still have to pay too much income tax. Politicians! They’re all the same, if you ask me.”

  Watching him, listening to him, Gideon felt uneasily that Rogerson might be right, Lem might not be a good man for deputy commander. At least there was no urgency about it, but sooner or later he would have to decide whether or not to recommend him.

  It was going to be a case of divided loyalties.

  At eleven o’clock that night, the first result came through. Williton: Quatrain 2,509, Talmad 12,991, Talmad elected, Independent gain.