“What you done to Shelley?” asked a small girl with a muddy face.
“They topped her, Fran,” said a boy with long blond hair and a fine collection of dried snot.
“No, we didn’t,” Katharine said gently. “She went too close to the Chariot.” She smiled at them. “You make sure you stay away, okay?”
They nodded uncertainly then looked round at the sound of quick footsteps.
“Fran, Rex, what you doing?” The woman’s voice was on the edge. “What happened to Shell?”
I stood up and opened my arms. “Sorry . . . she jumped up on the vehicle . . .”
“Who the fuck are you?” The voice was harsh now. “What the fuck you done to my dog?”
“We . . . we’re—” I broke off, wondering how to explain myself. “You’re Mrs Pym?”
She looked at me uncomprehendingly. “That’s old language,” she said, her eyes screwed up. “I’m Maddy Pitt.” She stared at the comatose dog and then at Katharine, whose smile seemed to encourage her. “I lived with Ted, if that’s what you mean.”
I nodded. “We’re trying to find your husband’s . . .” I was suddenly aware of the children’s blank faces. “We’re investigating—”
“You’re not bulldogs,” she interrupted, her eyes now fixed on Davie’s guard uniform. “Who are you?”
There was a murmur of voices and I realised that a crowd of people was gathering in the street.
“Trouble, Maddy?” called a large, long-haired man in a dirty vest which displayed his massive biceps.
She glanced at me again. “I don’t think so, Pete. I’ll let you know.” She smiled briefly and her face was transformed. Although she was young, her drooping shoulders and aggressive demeanour had made me think she was the kind of citizen that pushed around a wheelbarrow full of grudges. Now I could see that she was a fighter. “You better come inside, whoever you are,” she said. “Shelley’ll be all right. It’s not the first time she’s got herself pulsed.”
“Pulsed?” I said, following her up the uneven path.
“You’re not from Oxford, are you?” she said, looking back at me. “Didn’t you see the warning signs all round the industry park: ‘Danger – Unauthorised Personnel Will Be Pulsed’?” She held the flimsy front door open. “Just one way to keep us in our place.”
I walked into a surprisingly well-kept living room. The furniture was basic and old, but the place was clean – no sign of any dog hairs – and the small collection of ornaments on the ancient television was neatly arranged and dusted. The volume was low, but it was still easy enough to see how much of a moron the man wearing a floral suit was. He was running some sort of quiz show and he was egging the contestants on like their lives depended on getting the answer right. Maybe they did.
“You kids, go and play upstairs,” Maddy Pitt said, her voice soft now. “It’s too wet outside.”
“What about Shelley?” said the little girl.
“Don’t worry,” Katharine said, stroking her hair and smiling. “I’ll keep an eye on her.”
Maddy shooed her children out then eyed us dubiously. “What you want then? You must be working for the bulldogs even if you’re not wearing stupid hats. Otherwise you wouldn’t have a Chariot.”
“We’re not working for the bulldogs,” I said. “The administrators have asked us to investigate your man’s death.”
“Why?” she demanded.
“Because it might be linked to one in our city,” Katharine said.
“Where’s that then?” Maddy said.
“Edinburgh,” Davie replied, pointing to the maroon heart on his tunic.
“Never heard of it.” The Oxford woman turned away and took a silver packet from the dresser. “Smoke?”
We shook our heads.
“They’re safe,” she said. “No cancer.” She stared at the packet. “’Least that’s what they tell us. Course, people still end up in the hospital.”
I glanced round and realised there was a complete absence of books, magazines, any kind of reading material in the room. “Edinburgh,” I repeated. “It’s in Scotland.”
“Never heard of it,” she repeated.
“Didn’t you do geography at school?” Davie asked. “Or history? Or modern studies?”
Maddy Pitt looked at him and laughed. “School? There aren’t any schools out here.”
Christ. The significance of the term “sub” was beginning to become apparent.
After ten minutes of jousting, Maddy seemed to decide that we were at least worth opening up to. I got the impression that the bulldogs investigating Ted Pym’s death hadn’t shown much interest. She produced a tray with tea and some hairy-chested oatmeal biscuits that Davie approved of.
“So have you got any idea—?” I broke off and stared at the TV. “Can’t you turn that thing off?”
She shook her head. “You can’t turn it off,” she said. “Or cover it up. Or put the boot into it – unless you want the bulldogs round. Only thing is to turn the volume down and I’ve already done that.” She looked at me curiously. “Anyway, there’s nothing wrong with Want to Make a Mint?. It’s the only way you can get a better house or give your kids a chance of going to boarding school in the centre – though they’re prisons like everywhere else in this fucking place and I’m not sending Fran and Rex there, no matter what the dogs say, I’m not and . . .” She ran out of words and let out a desperate sigh.
I looked at the television again and saw that it formed an integral unit with its frame, the legs of which were welded to the floor.
Maddy caught the direction of my gaze. “It’s on all day from six in the morning to eleven at night. All you can do is drown it out with the O-blues.” She smiled crookedly. “But if we do that, you won’t have any chance of hearing what I say.”
“The O-blues?” I said. “What are they?”
Katharine’s eyes flipped upwards. She’d never shared my passion for the devil’s music.
“The sound of the suburbs,” Maddy said. “A mixture of old rhythms and guitar crash. The Cowley version’s definitely the best.”
It obviously had nothing much to do with any other kind of Oxford blues.
“Get on with it, Quint,” Katharine said.
“Right.” I looked at the woman who’d lived with the dead man and wondered if she had anything useful to impart. “Your man Ted,” I began.
“He wasn’t dirty,” Maddy Pitt said, her words coming out in a rush again. “The dogs never caught him for nothing.” Her eyes were wild and she’d taken a step towards me, fists balled. “He wasn’t like some of them out here.”
I nodded, trying to placate her. “I know. There was nothing in his personnel file.”
She stared at me, her expression gradually slackening. “I mean . . . he . . .” She turned to the tray and busied herself with the teapot.
“What do you mean, Maddy?” Katharine asked, warning Davie and me off with a stern look. “You said he wasn’t like some of them.”
The woman raised her head slowly then shook it. “Leave me alone,” she said in a low voice. “I don’t know you.” She let out a sob. “You can’t bring Ted back.” She started to weep quietly.
“What the fuck are you doing to her?” The heavily built guy she’d called Pete had appeared at the door. He barged in, heading straight towards me.
Davie had him in a neck lock before he even got close.
After a few minutes things calmed down. A crowd of locals had blocked the light from the front window, their faces fierce. They stayed where they were when they saw how Davie was holding Pete. Katharine spoke to Maddy Pitt while I tried to convince the man in the vest that we had nothing to do with the bulldogs. Eventually he nodded his agreement to my suggestion that he send his friends away. Davie wasn’t convinced we were in the clear, but he loosened his grip and the stand-off turned into a sit-down.
“This is Pete Pym,” Maddy said, handing the big man a mug of tea. “Ted’s brother.”
Pete glan
ced at Davie, who was between him and the door. “Fair enough,” he said. “You can’t be undercover dogs wearing rags like those.” He grinned. “I’ll get you, Black Beard. Where did you learn that lock?”
Davie looked down as Maddy’s dog wandered unsteadily into the room, and patted her head. “Never you mind, pal. I’ve got plenty more to show you if you’re interested.”
“All right, boys,” I interjected. “Shall we get on?”
Pete Pym peered at me suspiciously. “Get on with what?”
“We’re trying to find your brother’s killer,” I said. “Can you help us?”
He shrugged. “Too late to do anything for Ted now,” he said, shaking his head.
“But not too late for other people,” I said. I told him what had happened to George Faulds back home, leaving out the differences between the cases. “Have you any idea why Ted might have been chosen as a victim?” I looked at Maddy Pitt. “What did you mean when you said your man wasn’t like some out here?”
She glanced at Pete nervously. “I . . . I just meant he had a clean record.”
I looked at the victim’s brother. “Come on, give us a hand, Pete. We’re not going to put the bulldogs on to you.”
“Wouldn’t care if you did,” he said with grunt. “I’ve been inside most of their fucking prisons.”
I stared at him. “Most of their prisons? How many are there? And what did you mean about undercover bulldogs? I was told that they didn’t run that kind of operation in New Oxford.”
Pete and Maddy both burst out laughing.
“Come on, mate,” the victim’s brother scoffed. “What did you say your name was again?”
“Call me Quint.”
“Well, Quint, it seems to me you need an education.” He grunted again. “And not the kind they give those poncey fucking students up town.” He looked at Maddy. “I hope I’m not cocking up here, opening up to these foreign goons.”
She took in Katharine’s encouraging smile, thought for a bit then shook her head.
“All right,” Pete said, pulling back his arms and watching the muscles ripple. “Here’s how it is.”
What he said turned out to be more than a little enlightening.
“Where are you taking him?” the bulldog at the checkpoint on the slip road off the bypass demanded. This time the Chariot had stopped automatically because Pete Pym didn’t have the necessary access code.
“Murder investigation,” I replied. “We have full Hebdomadal Council authority.”
The bulldog looked up from his nostrum. “I can see that. I still need to know where you’re taking him.”
Davie leaned across. “Look, he’s not co-operating. I’m going to find a secluded spot and beat the shit out of him.”
Pym let out a high-pitched moan.
The bulldog cast his eyes round the inside of the Chariot then smiled at Davie. “Very good. Let us know if you need any help.”
That brought another petrified whine from Pym.
The vehicle moved off smoothly and in a few minutes we were passing through thick woodland. There was no sign of anybody and Pete Pym gave us the nod.
Davie told the Chariot to stop. “Right, you sack of pus,” he said, turning to Pym. “Out.”
We all stepped down, our feet sinking into the mulchy forest floor. Katharine and I followed as Davie dragged the prisoner deep into the dank undergrowth.
Pete ran his eye over us as we gathered round him. “Okay,” he said, completing the check. “No Nox gear, no nostrums?” We all shook our heads, having left the devices in the vehicle on his whispered instruction. “We’re out of range of the Chariot’s surveillance system now.”
“I got agreement from the chief administrator that we wouldn’t be subject to surveillance of any kind,” I said.
Pym laughed. “Did you, Quint? Bloody good for you. And you believed the cow?”
I raised my shoulders.
“We rigged up an anti-snooping field in Appleby Street last month,” he said, “so what was said in Maddy’s place shouldn’t have got back to the bastards. But your visit will have made them suspicious. That’s why we’re playing this game.”
I examined the burly figure leaning against a gnarled oak trunk. He looked more like a fairground heavy than someone capable of standing up to Raphael’s system.
“Why didn’t we stay there if it’s secure?” Davie asked
Pete Pym’s face was split by a broad grin that displayed gaps between dirty teeth. “I told you – they’ll have sent a squad to Maddy’s by now. Besides, I want to show you something, Black Beard.” He turned towards the tree. “But first I need to make it look like you roughed me up.” He drew back his head and smashed it three or four times into the damp green bark. A blackbird burst out of the bushes, its cries of alarm echoing through the trees.
I swallowed hard. Headbanging was never one of my favourite pursuits.
“See that?” Pete pointed to the east.
We were on the summit of a wooded hill, fields and distant buildings stretching away in front of us. The rain had stopped and the sun had begun to burn off the few remaining clouds.
Davie was looking through a pair of City Guard-issue pocket binoculars that he’d taken from his breast pocket. “Some kind of blockhouse,” he said. “There are a lot of people on the land near it.”
Pym nodded. He must have been having difficulty seeing anything. The skin above his eyes was broken and there was blood around his eyes, not that he seemed to care.
“Chain gang,” he said, shaking his long hair back from his face. “Planting spuds.”
“So much for high-tech agriculture,” I muttered.
Pete Pym turned to me. “Oh, they’ve got modern machines, all right. They use them in other areas. The eastern parts are punishment zones.” He laughed humourlessly. “The eastern parts and the centre of New Oxford itself.” He pointed to the left of the chain gang. “Over there – see those low buildings? – they’re a children’s prison.” He swung his arm round. “Down there, that village is what they call a family detention unit. I was in that with my woman and our six nippers.”
“What did you do?” Katharine asked.
“Me? Nothing.” Pym’s eyes narrowed. “Our Kevin, he got picked up with his mates. They nicked a Chariot, messed about with the command system and went hot rodding in it. All the families got banged up for six months of something called intensive social skills.”
I raised a hand. “Hang on, Pete. You’re moving too fast.”
He glanced around. “I’m also taking a big fucking risk standing out here in the open with you. Get back in the woods.”
We followed him into the cover, Katharine giving me a puzzled look.
“Start from the beginning, Pete,” I said, squatting down beside him. “You’re making New Oxford sound like a prison-state.”
The big man clapped his heavy hands together slowly. “Well done, son. That’s exactly what it is.”
I looked at him in disbelief. “Come on, there’s more to it than that. Nox is all about the university and the money it can make.”
“I’m not disagreeing with you,” he said. “As far as you’ve gone. All right, history lesson.” He grinned. “You’re in luck. I actually went to school and learned to read and write. They don’t give many of our kids that chance these days. Anyway, the city got fucked up big-time during the drugs wars.”
“Like most places,” Davie put in. “Including Edinburgh.”
“Okay, Scottish git,” Pym said with a laugh. “I’m not saying we got it any worse than the rest of you.” His face darkened. “Not in the beginning, at least. Except the farmland all over central England got polluted to buggery by those arsehole big companies with their arsehole chemical fertilisers and their arsehole genetically modified crops. Not to mention the thousands of cattle with BSE that were buried all over the place when the disease came back strong in 2005.”
“The Poison Fields,” I said.
He looked impres
sed. “You know about them? That’s a start. Anyway, they were a disaster for everyone else, but a godsend for the scumbags who wanted to set up the university again.” He stood up and moved an arm round in a great sweep. “The Poison Fields were an excuse for them to cut the city off from prying eyes.”
I nodded, remembering how the first Council had done the same thing with Edinburgh, blowing the bridges and railway lines, blocking the roads and putting up high fences on the borders.
“You had the same kind of thing, did you?” Pete asked. “Yeah, well, the administrators managed to attract money from the big companies – the same fuckers who’d destroyed the UK, of course – and they got the university going again.” He raised a thick forefinger. “But on a lot of conditions.” He slapped the finger against the flesh of his palm. “One: they were only to teach courses the companies wanted.” Another slap. “Two: they were to set up factories producing high-quality gear to pay back the companies’ investment.” He looked round at the three of us and brought his finger down again. “And three: they were to turn the whole state into a living laboratory.”
We were all staring at him.
“A living laboratory?” Katharine asked. “What do you mean?”
Pete Pym ran the back of his hand across his mouth. “We subs – you know they call us that? – we subs are their guinea pigs.”
“Jesus,” I said, thinking of the incarceration initiative back home and the windowless blocks in the colleges on Broad Street. “This city’s a criminologist’s dream.”
“Yeah,” Pete said grimly. “And a citizen’s worst nightmare.”
After a while Pete Pym looked at his badly scratched watch. “We’d better get back. The dogs will be beginning to wonder what we’re up to.” He moved off through the woods.
“Did your brother say anything about his place of work?” I asked, catching him up. “Did he say anything that might explain why he was killed?”
He shook his head. “Nah. He used to talk all the time about how strange the people in the lab were. Apparently the ones who work nights are the ones even the administrators don’t want to see. But he never told me anything that’ll do you any good.” He stopped and leaned against a fallen trunk. “You’ve got to understand, Quint. They treat us like morons. Slaves, actually. All we’re allowed to do is menial work – fetching and carrying, cleaning like Ted, working the fields. The students and researchers do all the brain work. We haven’t got much of a clue what goes on in the labs.” He caught my eye. “But I’ll tell you something. His killing, the arms hacked off, blood all over the shop – it wasn’t the first like that.”
House of Dust Page 23
