by Mark Leigh
Dick managed to get one other word out. ‘Wow!’.
‘We were certain there was a member of the Resistance operating within the department but despite our keen surveillance they somehow managed to evade us. Until now, that is’. Mary leaned forward slightly and continued, adopting a more earnest tone. ‘As you know, Benjamin tried to implicate you and I wanted to bring you here to apologise for treating you as a suspect. The party is well aware of the work you have undertaken for Project Gladstone and I of course know you on a personal level. Of course, I didn’t believe Benjamin’s outlandish allegations but I hope you understand that everyone had to be interrogated in exactly the same way’.
Dick nodded with a slightly blank look, trying to deal with the simultaneous mixed emotions of relief and shock. Relief that Taylor’s drugs had worked but shock that Benjamin had been a member of Resistance all along.
‘Are you one hundred per cent certain that Benjamin’s guilty?’ Dick added, hoping that he wasn’t pushing his luck, and that Mary wouldn’t say something like, ‘Hmmmmm. Maybe we were too hasty and got it all wrong’. But she didn’t.
‘Definitely. Although he passed the lie detector, we were alerted to his guilt by something far more serious’.
Dick’s frown was a cue for Mary to continue.
‘We received an anonymous tip-off and while Benjamin was being interrogated, a search was conducted of his work station. Concealed in a locked drawer we found a copy of your recommendations for Project Gladstone and even more damning, plans to build improvised explosive devices and a list of Party targets’.
Dick’s mind was reeling. His earlier hunch about Benjamin being recruited by Taylor as a back-up was right. If Benjamin was clever in disguising his anti-Party role then Taylor was a genius. A devious genius. He must have known that one of them would be unmasked in the interrogations so he hedged his bets. It obviously didn’t matter which one of them was sacrificed, Dick or Benjamin. Who cared as long as one of them continued the fight against the Party? Before he had time to consider the implications of Taylor’s cunning strategy Mary stood up.
‘You are free to go now Mr. Brunel’.
‘What about Benjamin?’ Dick enquired, also standing.
‘He’ll be taken to the State Police Headquarters for further interrogation’.
‘And then what?’ Dick enquired.
‘You don’t need to concern yourself with his fate, Mr. Brunel’. Mary held the door open for him. ‘Goodbye’.
Dick hesitated as he left the room. He stopped and shook his head. ‘I didn’t suspect Benjamin’.
Mary continued to hold the door open, now slightly annoyed that Dick hadn’t actually left yet, as despite its appearance, it was quite a heavy door. ‘No one suspected him, Mr. Brunel, no one at all. Which just goes to show that many people are in fact, not whom they might seem’.
As Dick left the room he took one last look at Mary to see if he could detect whether this barbed remark was aimed at him. Was it the sort of remark that, if you read between the lines, meant ‘I’m talking about you Jeremy Brunel. We know you’re concealing something and we’re watching you like a hawk’. If Mary was making a veiled threat to Dick then she certainly didn’t make it obvious. She didn’t raise an eyebrow by the tiniest amount or give a half smile. She didn’t even simultaneously wink and stamp her foot. Totally inscrutable, she gave absolutely nothing away. But then, just as Dick passed by her she uttered something under her breath that made him shudder.
‘William has a new jigsaw. The changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace. Two thousand pieces including lots of blue sky… Drop in anytime…’
CHAPTER 20
Jack had been activated at the Party HQ and sent on his mission into London’s East End. His programming was simple. He would move from bar to pub to tavern looking handsome, prosperous and a little bit lonely, attributes that the rogue prostitutes had been programmed to respond to. In less than twenty-four hours he had met his first target.
Jack was reading a newspaper and sipping a glass of port (he was designed to chemically digest anything he drank or ate) in the Smiling Blacksmith pub just off the Whitechapel Road when a woman approached. She was reasonably attractive, quite well dressed and she asked if the seat opposite was taken. Jack, always the gentleman, doffed his hat and said that he would welcome her company. Soon they were chatting about current affairs, the price of drinks and the latest bridge construction. Jack discovered her name was Elizabeth and it wasn’t long before Jack bought her a large glass of red wine. It wasn’t long after that before Elizabeth leant forward and whispered something suggestive in his ear. Jack nodded and smiled, then whispered back. More softly spoken words were exchanged, then Elizabeth blushed. She pulled back to look at Jack who was winking, holding his hands about ten inches apart (needless to say, Dick had insisted on that part of the programming).
Jack paid for the drinks, picked up his briefcase and the new couple exited the pub. Elizabeth looked nervously about her and taking Jack by the hand, led him up a dimly-lit Brick Lane towards Shoreditch. Noticing a police patrol on the corner of Hanbury Street they doubled back and after a few minutes, reached a deserted and squalid alleyway near Spitalfields Market. Making sure they were concealed from anyone who might pass by the alley entrance, Elizabeth grabbed Jack’s head with one hand, pulled him towards her and kissed him passionately on the lips. Her other hand moved skilfully down between his legs and felt the rock hard bulge in his trousers (his pneumatic valves were operating faultlessly). Elizabeth gasped. After releasing him she leant against one of the walls and began undressing. Despite the cool night air Elizabeth seemed comfortable opening her jacket, then her blouse, before hoisting up her skirt and dropping her red lace knickers.
Jack smiled at the display he’d just witnessed. Elizabeth watched intently as his hand slowly reached into his jacket pocket. What she saw next made her eyes widen and for the second time in a few minutes she gasped again. Jack was holding a bulging wallet. He playfully removed a fresh, crisp banknote and handed it to her. Elizabeth smiled back and with the skill and dexterity of a seasoned conjuror snatched it from his hand and, before his very eyes, made it disappear into her bra. As he began to unbutton the fly on his trousers, Elizabeth looked left and right in the alleyway, listening intently to make sure no one was aware of their presence. By the time she glanced back at Jack he was holding his weapon.
She gasped for the third time that night but her gasp wasn’t as a result of looking at Jack’s ten inch penis but rather at his seven inch knife. This gasp was the only sound Elizabeth could make as Jack’s free hand immediately covered her mouth. The moonlight reflecting off the bright stainless steel blade was the last thing she ever saw.
- - o O o - -
Jack was safely away from the scene of the crime when Elizabeth’s body was discovered early the next morning by a street sweeper. His shouts alerted a nearby policeman who ran into the alley to see what all the commotion was about. Slumped on the floor, covered in blood and vomit, was Elizabeth, or rather what remained of her. The blood wasn’t real of course. Jack had a large bottle of it in his briefcase and had poured it liberally over and around his victim before he left. The vomit however was real but Jack had nothing to do with it. It had been deposited by the shocked street sweeper when he first laid eyes upon the mutilated body. In fact, he had been so sick that the policeman slipped over in a puddle of it, causing him to fall on top of the dead body. Being covered in her remains and blood caused the policeman in turn to be violently sick so that when the State Police arrived shortly afterwards they were faced with what resembled a scene from a ‘slasher / vomit’ movie (if this niche horror genre ever exists).
Jack had performed exactly according to plan. Elizabeth had been carefully mutilated in order to give the casual observer, whether it was a member of public or a local policeman coming across the body for the first time, the impression that she had been attacked by a madman. Various body parts had been sliced off and
arranged around her in a way that was either highly symbolic or completely random, depending on your point of view. Two of her toes had been inserted in her nostrils, her severed left hand was resting in her armpit and if you were brave or disturbed enough to gently prize open her bloody mouth you’d have been greeted by the sight of her left ear. Unlike the demonstration that took place in front of the scientists, Jack was careful not to leave any internal mechanical parts on view. To add to the horror and mystery of this bizarre killing, fake intestines were draped over the victim’s head like bizarre colon dreadlocks. The State Police were under strict orders to dispose of the body – and any subsequent bodies – before the local police could conduct a post mortem, but after enough photographs had been taken for the media.
Jack’s first mission had been a triumph but as successful as this was, it was just the first part of Dick’s master plan. Now that Benjamin was out of the way and he himself had apparently been cleared of any suspicion, Dick could perform his next task effectively and with gusto. Effectively managing the media following this attack would both ensure Jack’s notoriety and Dick’s fame.
CHAPTER 21
‘Harlot Hacked To Pieces By Mystery Assailant’. The man in the expensive wool suit sitting in the expensive burgundy leather chair in the expensive oak-panelled office read the front cover of the Daily Morning News, then laid the paper down on his expensive walnut desk. Picking up the Daily Herald and The Chronicle he continued to read aloud the front page headlines. ‘Satanic Streetwalker Slaughterer On The Loose’. ‘Prostitute Disembowelled in Dastardly Disembowelling Attack’. Discarding these papers he smiled a smile that was half a smile of amusement and half a smile of approval. He turned to a smart, tall, distinguished-looking silver-haired gentleman wearing an elegant grey tailcoat.
‘These reports. The handiwork of Jeremy Brunel at the Ministry of Information I assume, Carter?’
The man replied in a refined accent, ‘Yes sir’.
He was about to say something else when there was a timid knock on the door, so timid in fact that it took twelve more knocks of increasing magnitude before it became even slightly audible.
‘Sir’, the silver haired man continued, ‘I believe there is someone at the door’.
‘Is there?’
Both men looked towards the door and listened intently.
‘So there is’. The first man spoke to the door. ‘Come!’
It opened and an attractive but meek-looking woman in her twenties entered carrying a thin folder.
‘Good morning Leader. This is Vera Darling’s updated report’, she said hesitantly. ‘It has just arrived’.
The Leader smiled again. This time however, it wasn’t a smile of amusement or approval. Or even a smile of fulfilment or joy. It was a predatory smile. The sort of smile you’d give a young, attractive and impressionable girl in the knowledge that you were the most powerful person in the country. The sort of smile that implied that if she knew what was good for her, she would pander to his every whim. Then the smile changed into one of whimsy. A smile that reflected on earlier times. After a moment the smile vanished and the Leader sighed, conscious he must concentrate on the job in hand.
‘Come here’ Miss…’
‘Hav… Havering’. The shy girl stammered and diverted her eyes from the Leader’s steely glare.
‘Come now. I won’t bite!’. Despite this assurance, the Leader gave her a look which gave every impression that he was being very economical with the truth.
The girl walked cautiously towards him and stopped when she reached the imposing desk.
‘You’re new aren’t you?’
‘Yes Leader. I started yesterday’. She said, gingerly handing him the folder.
‘Good, good. I’m sure you’ll soon get used to me and my, er, how would you describe my working practices, Carter?’
The words Carter had in mind, but dared not say were, ‘bloody strange’, ‘freakishly abnormal’ or ‘hellishly weird’. Instead he said, diplomatically, ‘Idiosyncratic, sir?’
‘”Idiosyncratic?” Yes. An excellent choice of words, Carter’.
As the Leader took the folder from a very nervous Miss Havering he gently held her chin and tilted her face up so he could look straight into her deep green eyes.
‘That word, “idiosyncratic”, it’s a difficult one to get your tongue around isn’t it? Could you get your tongue around it Miss Havering?’
Miss Havering gulped and nodded. ‘Y-Yes sir’.
‘Splendid!’ said the Leader. His fingers moved from her chin and caressed her smooth, soft cheek just for a moment, but long enough for her to feel very uncomfortable. It was a very flushed-looking Miss Havering who left the office, closing the door behind her.
The Leader turned to his manservant. ‘Carter, when we’re done, tell Miss Havering that I want to see her back here at six o’clock’.
‘Yes sir. And if she asks what for?’
‘I don’t care. Just tell her any old bullshit but make sure she is dressed appropriately’.
Carter raised his eyes and sighed inwardly at the same time as the Leader gently turned a hidden switch located under his desk. With a whirring sound, a piece of the wall panelling slowly and precisely slid upwards revealing a clothes rail which glided smoothly out into the office on castors. When this was fully extended the Leader rose and examined various items hanging there, feeling and smelling them, mentally weighing up their pros and cons.
‘What do you think, Carter? Nurse or ballet dancer. Or maybe the cat woman?’
‘It’s a very personal choice, sir’, Carter answered, shaking his head imperceptively.
‘That it is, Carter. That it is’. The Leader continued to peruse everything on the rail, fingers deftly flicking across hangers. He’d almost examined every single item when his fingers stopped and his eyes lit up.
‘Eureka! I forgot about this one. And it looks like it’s her size’.
The leader removed a garment and looked at it admiringly before placing it in a bag and handing this to Carter.
‘Very good choice, sir’. Carter replied, placing the bag at his feet and wondering how on earth he’d manage to persuade a young and impressionable new member of the Party’s administration staff to meet with the Leader that evening dressed as a milkmaid.
Seated at his desk again, the clothes concealed once more behind the panelling, the Leader flicked though the folder.
‘Vera’s found herself a good protégé in this Mr. Brunel. I liked his plan for Jack but the follow-up is even more ingenious — capitalising on all the murders. The public have an insatiable appetite for scandal and gossip and seeding these stories in the media will spread the word like wildfire. The rogue mechanical harlots will soon be destroyed and over-sexed women and men will be too frightened to consider becoming prostitutes or indeed, visiting them. All in all, a terrifically good result, wouldn’t you agree?’
Carter nodded. ‘I would, sir. This Mr. Brunel seems to be quite skilled. It is fortunate that he has come to our attention’.
‘It is indeed’. The Leader put the folder down. This time he frowned. ‘He has demonstrated that he thinks very differently to his colleagues’.
Carter, who had been pondering whether Miss Havering would believe the ‘You’ve been enrolled on a farmyard familiarisation course’ story, was slightly taken aback by the Leader’s tone. ‘Thinking differently?’, Carter asked. ‘Well that’s commendable, isn’t it sir?’.
The Leader stood and looked out of his wide office window high up in the Party headquarters, lord over all he surveyed. He looked down at all the citizens going about their daily routine, a happy, content, but most importantly, controlled, population.
‘I’m not sure. Mr. Brunel worries me slightly. He’s conscientious, efficient and highly intelligent, all attributes the Party can exploit. Despite this, he makes me feel slightly uncomfortable. Something about him keeps irritating me. He’s like a tiny pebble in my shoe’.
The
Leader closed his eyes and clenched his fists by his sides. He took a deep breath and shuddered.
‘I can feel… I can feel… a disturbance in the Fabric’.
Carter looked confused. ‘Does sir mean the curtains?’
The Leader sighed. He opened his eyes, sighed again, and turned to face Carter. ‘No. I mean the ‘Fabric’’.
‘As in cushion covers?’, added Carter.
‘No!’, exclaimed the Leader with more than a trace of annoyance in his voice. When I say ‘Fabric’ I mean the fabric of society. I mean I feel a disturbance in the energy that binds everything together in the universe and controls how it all works’.
Carter nodded and asked, ‘You mean like ‘a Force’. Like a ‘disturbance in ‘The Force’?’
The Leader’s eyes instantly widened.
‘Shhhhhhhhhhhh!’, he exclaimed. ‘Don’t use that word!’
‘“Force?”’, asked a confused Carter.
‘I said “don’t say it!”’ This time the Leader shouted.
‘It’s just that I think that talking about a disturbance in the Force is better than talking about a disturbance in the Fabric’, Carter added, quite reasonably. ‘A disturbance in the Fabric could be misconstrued as a flaw in the weave or defective stitching’.
The Leader hit the window hard with his fist before speaking through gritted teeth. ‘I know… but we have to use a different word to…’ He looked conspiratorially from side to side before whispering, ‘Force’.
‘Like “Fabric?”’, Carter proposed.
‘Yes, like “Fabric”’, the Leader agreed, his patience fast wearing out, ‘Because there are certain important legal issues involved, all right!?’.
The Leader had a way with his delivery that made it crystal clear when a matter was closed for discussion. This was one of those instances. Not only was the subject closed, it was boarded up with a sign saying ‘Keep away’ and two more that said ‘Enter at your peril’ and ‘Beware of the dogs’. The Leader continued. ‘Now where was I?’
