by Phil Brett
Olivia had asked the same thing to everyone she had rung. I, in turn, asked why she had.
‘Well, we’re both URSP members, and I suppose she felt that I could give her an idea of the commitment of the plant to the new state.’
‘And in your opinion it's constructive?’ I asked, before adding, ‘I’m a party member myself’.
‘Yeah, I know.’ She chuckled.
‘How?’ I enquired, fearing that my 15 seconds of fame had reached her too.
‘It said on your ID,’ she replied, obviously looking a little puzzled at such an obvious question.
Moving quickly on, I asked her to elaborate on their conversation. She seemed perfectly happy to oblige.
‘Comrade Harrison wanted to hear how it was going from someone here at the rock face. We talked in general about the issues surrounding fracking, the recent debates in the NWC and how fracking is seen as old fashioned, dangerous and unsustainable. Most of what she said I’d heard before, but she did tell me something which I didn’t know: at the most recent NWC power sub-committee meeting, it had been decided that the fracking and nuclear industry will continue temporarily, until a full, safe, coordinated and planned phase-out can be instigated. That's been the line since day one, but what's different is that the timeline is to be greatly shortened. Closure will be sooner than expected. She asked me how the news of that might affect the attitude of the workforce. I told that if I was being honest, there isn’t much support for the NWC at the plant. I mean, the Democratic Lefts are the biggest grouping here.’
‘And yet you don’t fear sabotage or the go-slows, which have occurred in other workplaces where that’s been the case?’
‘That’s what she asked. But no. We had a few leave, but they’ve been replaced, and we’ve had a several meetings here to discuss and clarify our position.’
‘Which is?’
‘Every meeting we have had opposes the NWC and calls for the reestablishment of parliament. Obviously, I disagree, but I’m the only URSP member here. There were two of us, but he left a few weeks back. Anyway, that said, we have also agreed that whilst workers are free to argue, campaign etc. against the NWC and oppose their policies, we will all keep the plant running as safely and efficiently as possible. That's considered to be the responsible position to take. But then . . .’ She laughed. ‘It could equally be that people here think the NWC will collapse soon and everyone will be back working for the prime minister again.’ She paused, and then said, what I had just thought. ‘’Cept me, obviously. If he returns, I’ll be in jail. If I’m lucky.’
I didn’t have chance to ask her about how she felt working in an industry which the party opposed because, just then, a message appeared to the left of her image. It was from Victoria.
Roijin has traced the call Olivia made to Nevin. It was made from the Shale Gas Extraction Plant. South Downs. East Sussex. England!!!
I looked at the date the call had been made, then looked straight at Victoria. Olivia not only had phoned the fracking plant but had felt the need to go there. It was there where she had gone after leaving the wind farm. So far, nothing Janet had said warranted a panic and a sudden journey there, and it was hardly likely Olivia fancied a trip to the south coast for the ice cream and waves. It was intriguing, to put it mildly, what had prompted her to make the drive. Victoria merely raised an eyebrow and finished her call to what sounded like a nuclear power worker. Commanding what passed for self-control, I let Janet continue. Maybe she was about to tell me what had so interested Olivia.
‘We can boast of not having a single stoppage in the last six months. We’ve even been able to maintain our staffing levels. Indeed, we’ve even recruited several new engineers and security staff.’
‘And what was Olivia’s reaction to this?’ I asked. Expectation now was almost making me physically gurgle. I struggled to prevent from that happening, feeling that it might be rather off-putting for comrade Kovac.
She shrugged, then smiled. ‘She seemed happy.’
So the question as to what had so worried Olivia still required answering. I tossed a hand grenade. ‘Though she felt something warranted further investigation. Something which required her to pay you a visit.’
Janet's reaction wasn't one of shock or fear, but just a big smile. ‘Just being efficient, I guess.’
Possibly. But If Olivia had felt it was so important to pay the extraction plant a visit, then so should we.
‘Are you at the Extraction Plant tomorrow?’
‘Tomorrow? Yeah, I’m on the day shift—’
‘Good. Wait for our call!’
I hung up and stared at Cole, who had been listening and had, it seemed, also been eavesdropping on the dialogue going on in my head.
‘Her visit could be perfectly innocent,’ she mused. ‘She was, after all, the senior comrade of the power industry, so visiting a power plant is hardly astounding. Especially one so controversial. But the question does arise: why didn't she inform the NWC? Why did she keep the visit a secret?’
It could have been the transcript for what had been going on in my head. Worryingly.
‘Which is why paying the place a visit makes sense,’ she added.
Praise indeed. Flush with such acclaim, I mentioned something else which had been bothering me. ‘We also need to seriously look into comrade Ali. His name is becoming far too common for my liking. She visits the plant and then rings his partner!’
That, though, received no ovation. Cole simply said, ‘They’re related industries, so it’s not that surprising.’
Maybe, but he was popping up again and again, like a demented yo-yo. ‘Okay, Victoria. What about the minor detail that his dad was in the Turkish secret service?’
Obviously, I was wittier than I thought, because that brought a full laugh. ‘Pete, it’s not usually a family business. Do you think it was handed down from father to son? Maybe it’s their genes? His father must be pretty old now, in his seventies probably, so they've passed on the baton, have they?’
I disliked sarcasm. When it wasn't coming from me. ‘Yes, yes, I get all what you’re saying, but you have to admit that his name keeps cropping up. We have to, at the very least, dig a bit deeper. Look, Victoria, I know why you’re reluctant to do this because of the shit I got us into the last time. I understand your concerns, but surely we have the wherewithal to do this with sensitivity.’
Judging from the look I received, she wasn't exactly sure that I was capable of that. Didn't she know that sensitive was my middle name? But I must keep cool. I countered. ‘Victoria, he “forgot” to mention that she had been trying to get hold of him! How likely is that?’
‘It might be just as he said. He’s been busy. You shouldn’t forget that he was the one who told us about her video message. If he had anything to hide, would he really have drawn our attention to it?’
‘Perhaps he was just being clever. He thought that we’d find out soon or later, so he thought he would pre-empt us. But, I repeat: Victoria, I understand and see all the objections against us investigating Ali. They are valid ones. I have no wish to besmirch anyone's character or to throw about false accusations. But this is too important for us to avoid just because someone is highly respected. We are trying to set up a truly egalitarian world, and the revolution comes before any individual.’
No laughter or dismissive reply met me this time. Instead, she thought for a second. You could almost see the cogs turning in her head. Something in there clicked, and she changed gear. Without feeling it necessary to tell me what her decision was, she rang Roijin.
Roijin answered on the first ring but barely had time to say hello, before Victoria requested a “full inventory” on Ali. To say that Roijin was not keen would be a record-breaking under-statement. Indeed, she came up with far more reasons not to than Cole had managed. With added scathing laughter and cynical scoffing. The main reason was that comrade Youssef Ali was being lined up for great things.
‘We are trying to set up a truly egal
itarian world, and the revolution comes before any individual,’ replied Cole. She looked at me and smiled, acknowledging the direct steal.
Reluctantly, Roijin agreed to do it. It was obvious though, that she was only doing so because Victoria had asked her to. I could just imagine what she would have said if I had been the one asking. Now that would have enough involved expletives, which would have hurt my sweet innocent ears.
Next, Cole contacted Glen Bale, who appeared to be travelling on a bus full of over-exuberant teenagers. For him, she simply asked him to do a full security check on all the CIMC communications. He didn’t quibble or complain, but simply said – loudly, to get himself heard – that he would.
It was getting late, but we chewed over the rest of the dozen or so calls we had made. Cole’s were very similar to mine. They were an army of power workers who had been giving background information to Olivia Harrison, their elected senior representative. Nothing to get excited about.
It really did feel as if we were getting somewhere. Even if it was only to the south coast. Whether it could be termed a hot lead, I couldn't tell you. Or even if such a term existed outside of 1950s cop dramas. Then, there were my doubts about brother Ali. In my own mind at least, I was fast becoming the Alexey Stakhanov of detection. He was the worker used by Joseph Stalin to demonstrate the fantastic productivity of the new regime, and to detract attention from the bloody purges occurring. Although, unlike the fabled Soviet 1930s miner, I doubted if we’d be used in propaganda for our revolution. My job was a little too embarrassing for that.
Talking of which, if we were to go waltzing down to the fracking centre, then we’d better go prepared. Much as l was prone to making it up as I went along, this might not be the time. A bit of prep could be of use. ‘We should get some background on the extraction industry,’ I said to Cole. ‘I’m sure that you’re as much in the dark about fracking as I am. We could do a net search, but talking to someone would be better.’
She looked at the time. ‘It’s almost eleven. You’re not going to find anyone at this late hour who’ll agree to speak to us. Unless, that is, you want to talk to night watch staff.’
She was wrong about that. ‘I know someone who’ll be still working, and who has knowledge which we could use. I bet they're at their desk right now.’
‘Really?’
‘Oh, yes. I'm pretty sure they will be.’
I grabbed my coat and told her to hurry.
‘Should get myself a uniform,’ she mumbled. ‘I’ve turned into a bloody chauffeur.’
Actually, it was more likely that she saw herself as some form of hospital security escorting a dangerous patient, but I said nothing. I figured chauffeur was less insulting to me.
15. Viola riviniana
It was just past my Anchorage curfew time when we had arrived at the London offices of what had formerly of been the Hague Extraction Company. Located near the Liverpool Street railway station, they had attempted to mix modern corporate power with elements of the former shipping and trading companies, which used to inhabit the commercial areas around there. The reception was fronted by signage for the previous owners, thrusting glass windows and two huge swinging door entrances.
Cole had made it brutally plain that she considered this to be a pointless journey. Why would anyone in a doomed industry be working at this time of night? And, in the unlikely event that someone was, they'd be doing it from home, keeping warm between power cuts and working on the net between cyber-attacks.
She was wrong. They'd be there.
We strode into the cavernous reception, with the attitude that visiting someone in an office at midnight was the most normal thing in the world. Two huge sculptures hung off the walls behind the single high-powered receptionist, who boasted bright blond hair and black tech-glasses. I was more interested in the sculpture, which reminded me of our saviour back at the wind farm. What was it about power companies and art?
I didn't have time to find the answer before the receptionist mechanically asked if she could help us. Aside from the glasses, she could have easily time travelled from the noughties: dark blue skirt suit, pale pink shirt and wearing makeup thick enough to lay the bricks of a suburban semi. Pre-foundation cream, she was probably white.
Her question had been directed at me, which I thought was simply because I had approached her first. However, Cole obviously felt slighted. Despite the fact that it was my idea to come here, it was my partner who answered.
‘My name is Victoria Cole and this is Pete Kalder. We are on official business for the National Workers’ Council.’ She flashed a video message from Jackie Payne requesting that she be given all and any assistance required. I had once had one of those. Not now. Obviously, I could only be trusted so far.
The receptionist nodded with a determinedly neutral air, thankfully not knocking us unconscious with her eyelashes. We were then treated to a pre-rehearsed speech, which she had been instructed to say: ‘Welcome to the London offices of the national extraction industry for zones D5 and E1. At present, we are in transition from our former owners, The Hague Extraction Company, to our new role with the workers’ government.’
She paused. I felt sorry for her. If it was dull hearing that drone, and it must so much worse having to say it. In fact, why didn’t they just have an automated reception? If they wanted the human touch, then why not employ a person who had some links with the human race? She then asked again how she could help.
‘We were wondering if we could speak to Sophie Humes,’ I said.
Without blinking (it was probably very tiring to do so with such lashes), she replied that, with much regret, it was not possible because Sophie Humes had gone home several hours ago.
‘Are you sure?’ Victoria asked, less than half-heartedly. Clearly, Victoria believed that this only confirmed her view that this was a pursuit of untamed waterfowl.
‘Pretty much, but let me check.’ She looked straight ahead in that disconcerting way people do when they are reading their tech glasses. Or pretending to.
‘I am really sorry, but I was correct – she is not in. If you would like me to take a message, I will happily do so. We are keen to work closely with the new administration.’
With a heavy sense of annoyance, Cole said, ‘I thought the “new administration” owned you now, so shouldn’t it be the case of working closely for it rather than with it?’
The plastic welcoming act slipped, just a touch. It was still there, but her reply had a slightly brittle edge. ‘Indeed, that is so. However, the fact remains, Ms Cole, that Sophie Humes is not in the building.’
Victoria turned and flashed me an I-told-you-so look. Ignoring it, I moved forward. ‘Please call her extension number and tell her that Pete Kalder is in the reception.’
‘But—’
I held up my hand. ‘I know, I know, she’s out. So just ring her extension and leave a message that Pete Kalder is here. What harm is that going to do? You can just tell her when she comes in tomorrow morning that you were being helpful and polite to two representatives of the NWC.’ I then gave her my sweetest smile. I, too, could do plastic emotions.
And rather effective it was too. She spoke straight ahead. Then, after a few seconds, she, in her well- practised robotic voice, left a message: ‘Hello, Mrs Humes. This is Connie at reception, leaving a message as requested by Victoria Cole and Pete Kalder from the National Workers Council, at . . .’ she made a huge play of looking at her watch, ‘. . . 00.09. I have informed them that you are not in the building, but Mr Kalder insisted that I—oh, er—’ She almost choked on her lip gloss. ‘Mrs Humes!’
Even her foundation cream couldn’t hide the blush, which was spreading like wildfire across her face.
I smiled even more sweetly. Victoria looked surprised.
Connie was struggling to stay in control. Those twilight HR training sessions hadn't prepared her for this. Should she continue with the lie that she thought that Mrs Humes was not in, which might make her look stupid t
o the woman in question? If she didn't, it would be obvious that she had been telling us whoppers. Presumably, Humes had told her not to let people up. I couldn’t imagine Miss Reception here having the gumption to do it herself, and now, confusingly, Humes was instructing her to do the opposite.
The receptionist chose to garble. ‘Oh, you are in, Mrs Humes! I . . . er . . . was told that you had left. They thought you had gone home at five. I do apologise. I . . . er . . . had been told to say . . . because . . . well . . . Yes, sorry.’ She stopped, because Mrs Humes was finding this painful. Getting your arse licked can be, I guess. She repeated our names. ‘It is Mr Pete Kalder and Ms Victoria Cole. Oh. Okay. I’ll send them up straight away.’
Commendably, by the time she had been given her orders and looked at me, she had recovered her composure. ‘Mrs Hume, it seems, is in her office. I do apologise, Mr Kalder and Ms Cole, for the confusion. She asks if you could go up. Please take the lift to the fifth. Mrs Hume’s secretary will meet you there.’ She pointed to the lifts, where a large security guard was looking equally as surprised as young Connie here. Oiks were being allowed upstairs!
In the lift, I avoided Victoria's enquiring look and just stood there thinking. With a sense of foreboding.
At the fifth floor, the doors opened and we were met by a young woman in a black trouser suit and a crisply ironed white shirt. She smiled and shook our hands. Then, she performed the task which she was primed for, and led us the several metres to Sophie Humes' office door. She knocked, waited, opened the door and ushered us in. She was good at this.
We entered an office which didn’t so much shout authority – that would simply be too crass – but purred it with a knowing smile. Two thirds of the floor space was an approach to the single sleek desk. Standing at the far end, in front of large windows which framed a grand view of the London, it spoke with the simple message that here worked an important player in this city. On the wall on our right was oak (and I would guess real oak) shelving, which displayed various models of drilling type machines. Between it and us was a painting, a Chagall which, like the shelving, I presumed to be genuine. Floating by it were three screens, all showing majestic scenes of British countryside. No doubt hung as a contrast to how it now looked since they’d got their hands on it.
