Gone Underground

by Phil Brett

  The name pressed down on my stomach. It was as if the events of ten months ago were now holding me in an iron grip: Cole, Payne, Harrison and now Wiltshire. It had been Alan Wiltshire’s death which Jackie Payne had asked me to look into. I had been recovering from a mental breakdown after the loss of my partner Caroline and my only child Lisa, when Jackie Payne had visited me. Taking time out from leading the revolution, she had convinced me to investigate his death and, in doing so, had involved me in a whole lot of trouble. Trouble spelt S.H.I.T.

  My words were carefully spoken, as if any incorrect pronunciation would explode in my mouth. ‘What exactly about the “Wilshire affair” was she investigating?’ I asked.

  ‘I don’t know. I need to get there and find out. That’s . . .’ She paused. For the first time, there was a slight reluctance to say what she felt she wanted to. It was dawning on her what exactly she was asking. ‘That’s why I think it’s important that you come along. I think there might be a link with . . . the mole . . . and if there is—’

  My answer was snapped: ‘It will have nothing to do with me.’

  From her expression, it was clear that she didn’t accept that. In the seconds of silence, I thought about the fact that since we had revealed the identity of the MI5 agent imbedded in our party, The United Revolutionary Socialist Party, they were never mentioned by name. They were always merely referred to as ‘the mole’. It was as if using a name would make them human and that was something which nobody wanted. Vermin more fitted the bill. Perhaps people wanted to forget because of some collective guilt. Or perhaps it was simply that they had really forgotten. I hadn’t. I hadn’t forgotten the terror that little shit had brought down upon me. Yeah, shit was a better name than mole. Or turd. But whatever the reason, it was an irony that, after a brief glare of notoriety, they were once more in the shadows.

  I wondered if Cole had a private name for ‘the mole’. Neither that or my ‘the shit’ sounded strong enough to describe him. After all, she had nearly died because of the shit’s actions.

  Still talking in a hushed tone, she grew more assertive. ‘Really? Don’t you think that if there is some kind of link or unfinished business concerning MI5 agents in the party, we owe it to ourselves to look into it? You yourself argued at your trial about how it was unlikely that it had been just one agent working alone—’

  I stopped her short. ‘And I was dismissed out of hand as a conspiracy theorist nut-job.’

  ‘I don’t think we would have used those terms, comr—’

  ‘Oh, spare me!’

  I took a fierce gulp of the coffee, which hadn’t been the wisest of moves as a splash ended up on my chin. Wiping myself dry, and reflecting that dribbling in a place like this was not a good look to have, I repeated myself, ‘So, what have I got to do with it? Get someone else to look into it.’

  I refrained from asking since when had this ex-cop become the confidante of Jackie Payne, the de facto leader of the world revolutionary socialist movement, because that wasn’t the key thing at the moment. To be honest, if Jackie and Victoria were pals, good for them. I’d supply the cupcakes for their afternoon teas (assuming there were any available on the emptying supermarket shelves). Of far more importance was why the hell I should allow myself to be dragged into the sewer again. It seemed to me that every spook from every ruling class secret service you could think of would be trying to destabilise the revolution and prevent it from spreading, but let someone else look into it. I had done my bit. Been there, seen it, and got the t-shirt with ‘anger management issues’ in block letters on the front and ‘could have died’ on the back.

  My fingers were rolling rapidly on the table, making a discordant percussive beat. ‘And I don’t think I owe it to myself to look into it. I did as Jackie had asked, and look where that got me!’

  I stopped, realising that she might hold a better hand in the martyrdom stakes. ‘And don’t you dare say that I owe you, either!’ I growled.

  Her reply was a gentle as a new born baby, but as forceful as the right hook from a world champion. ‘I wasn’t going to, Pete. But I wonder if you, and I, owe it to the revolution. Maybe there’s a debt to be paid there.’

  Somewhat pretentious I thought, but still, I didn't have an answer. My jaws felt glued together and I looked down at my feet. In shame? In thought? Maybe both. In any case, there was no smart-arse reply ready to hand.

  She continued in the same vein, although with just a touch of a smile. Looking around her she added, ‘Would it be worse than being here?’

  Just then, Mark Grove roared with that hyena-like laugh of his as some news item came on, which no doubt showed the country in difficulties and the party in a bad light. From the familiar abuse he was now hurling at the reporter and the total joy he was taking from doing so, it was definitely something to do with us.

  I looked at Victoria Cole and said simply, ‘OK. I’ll get my coat. Give me five.’

  4. Papaver rhoeas

  Swinging out of the driveway, we caught sight of a group of thirty people, wrapped up warm, all smiling, waving torches and spread across the road. The happy ramblers were returning from their therapeutic walk and needing, no doubt, an equally therapeutic cup of cocoa.

  The car had tinted windows, so I could see them but they could not see Cole and me. This included my dear friend, Dr Brakus, who looked quizzically at the car as the group moved aside to let us pass.

  ‘Will you get in trouble for this?’ Victoria asked.

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘Always a rebel,’ she grinned. ‘The patients and the staff won't like that.’

  ‘Guests,’ I corrected her. ‘We are called guests’.

  Having put the car on auto, she merely rested her arms on the steering wheel. It took a sharp right and headed south, towards Enfield Town. The car purred whilst we tried awkward conversation.

  ‘I’m surprised you’re allowed to keep this,’ I said, indicating the rather high performance nature of the machine.

  ‘Call it compensation from the state, for being shot in defence of the revolution.’

  I wasn’t sure whether she was joking or not. Indeed, did Victoria Cole make jokes? I couldn’t remember too many, but so many things had changed: why not the acquisition of a sense of humour? But I didn’t pursue the matter, having exhausted that avenue of conversation. In any case, a call was coming through, which not so much terminated a conversation as filled the lack of one. From the angle of the screen, I couldn't see the face of the caller. I didn’t need to. I recognised the voice immediately.

  ‘Hi, Vic. Where are you? We expected you to be here already.’

  It was Asher Joseph, one of the cops which Victoria had brought over to the revolution. So, technically, he and I were on the same side. Technically. We'd met before. He wasn't a fan.

  ‘Sorry, Ash. I’m on my way. I had to do something en route. Should be there within the hour. Tell me what’s happening.’

  I guessed that I was the ‘something’. He couldn't see me either, so he wasn't to know that. Probably just as well. He wasn't going to appreciate this particular something.

  ‘Things are progressing here at the Central Battersea Car Park. The murder was on the third floor, but we’ve cordoned off the whole block, just to be on the safe side. I’ve organised a close sweep around the car and then we’ll move outwards. The South West London Stewards are working both within the car park and its close environs, to see if anyone saw anything. The locals are pouring forward to help, so it’s as much crowd control as information gathering. Still, we should have a preliminary report by the time you get here. I’ve made a good start on the forensics. They had enough sense here not to touch anything, so I am hoping the scene is intact. Roijin’s just arrived and is unpacking her bag.’

  ‘Describe the scene.’

  His soft voice, with an accent I couldn’t locate, betrayed no emotion but was pure professionalism. ‘The bo . . . Olivia Harrison . . . is slumped over the steering wheel. The car's a
three year old Svemir, solar electric, a semi, which was on manual at the time of shooting. Like I said, it’s parked on the third floor, Block B. The front right side window is shattered. Judging from the entry wound on the side of her head, I would guess that the killer shot through the window whilst coming up from behind. The entry wound is neat and elliptical, as you’d expect from an AA12. The exit is centre is above her left eye but basically it took her a chunk of her face with it. As appears to be usual with those who use this kind of weapon, the choice of bullet was self-exploding. What is left of the bullet itself is lodged in what used to be called the glove compartment.’

  Despite driverless cars being around for some time, most people still could not fully let go of control of the vehicle, especially a control freak like Cole. She allowed herself only a moment to take her eyes of the road and ask, ‘Is that how you knew the type of gun so quickly?’

  ‘Absolutely. It had pretty much smashed the left interior, so it was easy to extract. Then I just slotted it in the Ballistic Fingerprinter, and we got a match.’

  ‘But it’s a different AA12 to the one used in the Alan Wiltshire episode?’

  He sounded puzzled. ‘Er, yes. That one was a second generation, this one is a third. Why do you ask? I thought that weapon had been destroyed.’

  ‘Just covering the bases, Ash. Sorry. Please continue. Anything else which could be of help?’

  ‘Not so far, but we haven’t been here long.’

  ‘Did anyone see anything?’

  ‘Not so far, but like I said, it’s too early to tell for sure.’

  ‘Okay. So, do we know why she was there?’

  ‘She was waiting for Nick Morgan, her partner. Party member, rank and file, joined pre the upturn. She was due to meet him here and give him a lift home. He’s a biology teacher at a secondary school just round the corner. It was him who found her. Says he didn’t see or hear anything. As you'd expect, he’s in shock, so he may think of something later. She was dead when he arrived. Some neighbours are looking after him until you get here. I informed him that you’d want to talk to him, but I’m not sure he took it in. That’s about it so far, Vic.’

  She nodded. ‘Okay, thanks, Ash. See you soon.’ She closed the link.

  Driving through the centre of Enfield, we passed a burnt out supermarket. Smoke was still coming off its embers. The sight of the wrecked shop was a reminder that not everyone had welcomed our ascent to power. A bomb had been left in a shopping trolley. No one knew exactly why they had done so, but it was unlikely that it was because the baked beans were past their sell-by date. You could also pretty much bet that it wasn’t a supporter of the workers’ state. Blowing to smithereens punters with their ration slips, whilst they wandered up the frozen food aisle, wasn’t a great way to build solidarity.

  We were all too aware of the violence that could be meted out in the name of democracy. It wasn’t so long ago that there had been a tangible fear that the situation was getting out of hand and the Prime Minister’s military intervention was going to be the winner. Proof of that wasn’t far from the Anchorage, with rows of blackened shops testaments to the street battles of the civil war. Standing there, hollow and gutted, as frozen as a taxidermist’s exhibit of past commercial beasts, they managed to be simultaneously both pitiful and powerful. We had defeated the forces of reaction and declared a workers’ republic, but not everyone was draping themselves in red flags. Some were still fighting.

  Cole rudely interrupted my thoughts. ‘So, what do you know about Olivia Harrison?’ It was more of a demand that a polite question, as comrade Cole felt that she was the one in charge here.

  I played along. After all, I had just been sprung from a refuge for those with mental issues, so I was hardly one to be barking orders.

  ‘Not much. She’s been in the Party for a few years; came through the trade union movement, specifically the power workers. I think, at about the time of the Cheoi bank crisis. She’s a . . . she was, a sound comrade, if not a particularly exciting or breath-taking one. Having said that—’ I corrected myself. ‘She was, it has to be said, outstanding during the coup crisis. You’ll remember that she was one of the committee grouped around Alan Wiltshire who was charged with organising the defence of the country. Most people think she did a great job.’

  The prime minister’s ultimately futile attempt to solve the problem of the long-running situation which had existed in the country, of power split between workers’ councils and parliament, by the smashing of the both of them and then ruling with dictatorial powers, may now seem crazy adventurism, but then we were worried. Very. Very, as in collectively shitting ourselves, worried. The fact that he had lost, hadn’t crowned himself sole ruler and held mass executions, was proof that she had performed her task extremely competently.

  I recalled her role in it. ‘Control of the nation’s power supplies had been one of the crucial battles and it was at least, in part, won because of her personal standing amongst the engineers, scientists, technicians and even managers. She understands too the technical aspects of the grid and could astutely position our forces to neutralise every move the putschists made.’

  What was the quote? What had Jackie said? Finally, it came to me, ‘The fact that the lights stayed on and the food could still be cooked can be said to have been down to the leadership of Olivia Harrison.’

  ‘Quite true,’ Cole agreed.

  So, maybe that was the reason for her murder – revenge for defeating the counter revolution.

  It was worth reflecting that, at the time of her greatest triumph, I had been incarcerated in the Safehouse Midlands Prison and had been somewhat more concerned with what the screws had put in my food than anything else. Maybe that wasn’t quite true: what had been happening outside the prison walls would have a massive bearing on what would happen inside. One of the lesser commented alternative outcomes of the power struggle had been for the future of me, Pete Kalder: a bullet, if the coup succeeded, life imprisonment if Parliament won out, uncertainty if the revolution did.

  Another question jarred me out of my self-absorption. Victoria asked, ‘What about her - personally?’

  ‘I know even less.’ I admitted. ‘During our investigation into Alan Wiltshire, I had a bit of look into her personal life. She had twins – four years old, I think. Can’t remember their names. But if I remember correctly, she has three sisters and a mum, all living in Hornchurch.’

  Cole didn't say anything. Presumably, she was waiting for me to give further details. But there weren't any. Okay, it wasn't a door-stop dossier, but what did she expect?

  If she was disappointed, she didn't show it but instead asked, ‘What did you make of her?’

  ‘A strange fish, to be honest. I never knew which Olivia Harrison was going to turn up, whether it was the friendly or the antagonistic . . . .’ My mind drifted back to the trial and to Harrison’s testimony. The woman who had turned up then had greatly surprised me. She had solidly defended all that I had said and done. If anyone could have been called a character witness for the defence, it would have been her. What she had lacked in concrete evidence, she made up for in commitment. Her testimony had set the background in which I acted. She had made a good contrast to Cole, who had been more clinical, and not just because she had given her evidence from a hospital bed. If Harrison had used passion, then with Cole, it had been precision.

  Being neither a friend nor a colleague, her words had carried weight, forcibly arguing that I had done my revolutionary duty and investigated MI5 infiltration as I had been requested to do. The jury should realise how difficult it must have been for me. And she had said, with rising intensity, that I had done so without fear of my personal safety. I had found the threat to the revolution and disposed of it. I should be congratulated and not condemned. During her testimony, tears had welled up in my eyes and threatened to do so again. I had appreciated her solidarity. Being hospitalised, Cole hadn’t been present for Harrison’s appearance, so she wouldn’t have
known what she had said. Consequently, Cole wasn’t to know that it was largely due to the memory of Olivia’s support that I had agreed to help investigate her murder. Victoria was right: I have a debt to pay, but it was primarily to Olivia herself. She had shown solidarity back then. It was my turn to show her some.

  Cole was wittering on about Harrison’s public profile and how she had come out from the shadows and into the light. I refrained from pointing out that she had ended up being killed in the shadows. Or that I had thought of the same analogy for the MI5 agent we had unmasked. Was revolution making us all bloody Rembrandts and masters of light and shade? Or did we just wheel out the same clichés?

  The North Circular was pretty clear of both traffic and snow, so it meant that Cole could play racing drivers. She disabled the car speed restriction. The few cars on the road were swiftly overtaken as we did a fair impression of a computer game. She, for the moment at least, had nothing more to ask, and I had little I wanted to say.

  So, we sat in silence.

  Hitting Brent Cross, thankfully not literally, we sped past the squatted shopping centres. Flags flapping in the breeze and car parks resembling ice rinks, they looked eerily desolate. The years of built-in obsolescent retail and latest fad merchandise had crashed, with the unimaginative palaces for dreams of acquisition visibly falling down, with as yet, no thoughts of rebuilding.

  This changed dramatically when we travelled into the posher parts of London. Here were the terraced houses boasting proud railings and confident black doors, and bold brass knockers, but their pride was now from the new occupants who had been moved in by the National Workers Council. The execs who had once quaffed champers had either fled the country or faced the consequences once they had been told by their redundant PA that their five spare bedrooms were now going to be occupied. Those who hadn't slid off with their savings between their legs had been allowed to stay but were now to be sharing. Experiencing for the first time the excitement of organising the cleaning rota. No doubt, they'd be the first for the toilet duty.