The Bell Ringers

by Henry Porter

  There was a moment of hesitation, then six hands went up.

  ‘Those for?’

  Another six hands were raised, including those of Martingale and Somers.

  ‘We have a tie with one abstention,’ he said. ‘Mr Eyam’s appearance here is certainly unusual and inconvenient but I’m persuaded that an issue has been raised that should be aired, even though little time remains in the life of this committee. I cast my vote to hear him . . . Mr Eyam, please continue.’

  The two whips looked aghast. Eyam cleared his throat. ‘Thank you; I am grateful to you.’ There was a silence. He glanced down with a strange internalised look then raised his eyes. ‘You have seen what’s happened over the last two days – the army and police deployed by emergency powers against a threat that was apparently caused by lax procedures in government laboratories. Now we all know what a military coup looks like. Over the last few years, there has been another sort of coup – a coup by stealth, which very few people realised was underway. It began several years ago when the public was persuaded to give up its privacy in exchange for benefits promised by the state. I was part of the process and I saw it happening from the inside, though I have to confess that I didn’t foresee that it would end with a system that saps the life and independence of every adult in the country. I did not see that when they talked about knowing a ‘deep truth’ about every citizen they meant exercising total control. That was stupid. So the first part of what I have to say is to take some responsibility, and to that end I offer another piece of paper to the committee.’ He turned to Miff who handed him a file, and removed a single sheet. ‘I won’t go into detail now, but you will see this is a memorandum from me to the prime minister, which contains remarks by him and Eden White, both of which are signed.’ He gave it back to Miff, who took it to the chairman. ‘I believe this memo was the start of it all, though I have to confess that I completely forgot about the exchange.’

  ‘Chairman, he is simply describing a data-sharing operation,’ said Turnbull. ‘There’s nothing new in that.’

  ‘I hope to show you otherwise, Mr Turnbull,’ said Eyam calmly.

  ‘Can you tell us how you discovered that the system had been introduced?’ asked Beatrice Somers, with a nod to Redpath.

  ‘When I took over the Joint Intelligence Committee after Sir Christopher Holmes’ death in a fire – about which you have certain documents – I learned of a Secret Intelligence Service report that suggested a super surveillance system in Britain was being accessed by a foreign power – Russia. This piece of raw intelligence was suppressed at the time, but Christopher Holmes pursued it and realised that it had implications not just for everyone’s privacy but the country’s security. He died in suspicious circumstances before he could make it public. I believe that the current head of the JIC, Andrew Fortune, was responsible for taking steps to cover up both the security lapse and the existence of DEEP TRUTH.’ He paused. Kate saw him swallow hard. It was as if something was caught in his throat. She reached for the water jug and poured him a glass.

  ‘These are very serious allegations,’ said Redpath.

  ‘All of them are confirmed by these documents. You will find a memorandum signed by Sir Christopher which explains the security lapse,’ he said between sips. ‘Naturally the government could not admit to the breach without admitting to an invasive system that had been introduced without Parliament’s permission.’

  ‘What evidence do you have of the breach?’ asked Beatrice Somers.

  ‘I will come onto that in a little while, if I may.’

  ‘Well, you better get on with it,’ she said testily.

  ‘Yes. First some facts and figures: SPINDRIFT was Christopher Holmes’ name for the system. Informally it was known by the name given to the product of the system – DEEP TRUTH. The last figure puts the cost to the taxpayer at twelve point five billion pounds, but that is probably out of date. The system, which sits silently in every national and local government database collecting data and prompting action, assesses its own performance by recording the number of actions it has initiated against members of the public. Two years ago there were nine hundred and eighty-nine actions. That is nearly a million people who were subject to automatic persecution. Apart from being vindictive, DEEP TRUTH, or 455729328, the rather simple code used by John Temple and Eden White, is also incompetent. It frequently makes blunders with misidentifications and draws wildly erroneous conclusions about innocent people’s behaviour. Each one of you on this committee has a file. Every phone call you make, every car journey, every holiday you take, most of your expenditure, every time you visit hospital, show your ID card, draw some money from your bank account, change job, check into a hotel, the system notes the transaction and decides whether your behaviour is somehow a threat to the state.’

  ‘This is nonsense,’ said the young apparatchik. ‘You can’t say these things without proof.’

  ‘You want proof – certainly, sir.’ He turned round to the public benches. ‘This is Darsh Darshan. He is the Simms Professor of Mathematics at the University of Oxford. With your permission, he will now show the system to the committee and in doing so demonstrate that its defences can be breached quite easily.’

  Darsh got up, took five laptops from the bag and laid them on the witness table. Each one was already switched on and connected to the internet. With Miff’s help he distributed four of the laptops around the committee, leaving one in front of Eyam. Then he stood aside, gloved hands pressed together.

  ‘These computers are linked to a powerful mainframe through the web for the next couple of hours,’ said Eyam. ‘I will not give out the web address because clearly we don’t want members of the general public looking each other up. Now, if you care to type your own names, post code, car registration number, insurance number or mobile phone number into the field at the top you will be able to see the extent to which DEEP TRUTH monitors you.’

  ‘I have nothing to hide,’ said Turnbull.

  ‘Fine,’ said Eyam almost gleefully. Kate leaned over and saw him type Jeff Turnbull MP. Then after a few seconds scanning the file he said, ‘Mr Turnbull, it seems that two weeks ago you checked into a hotel in Scarborough. The system notes that you made five calls from your room, two to another room occupied by Tracy Mann. DEEP TRUTH suggests that you probably travelled to Scarborough together because there is no record of Ms Mann’s car on the road leading to the town and she did not buy a rail ticket. I could go on about your tax and expenditure, which the system has flagged up, your divorced daughter and her children’s records in school, also marked for some kind of action which it seems was automatically overruled because of your position but—’

  ‘You’ve got no right,’ cut in Turnbull. ‘This is my private life.’

  ‘Exactly – I have no right and nor does anyone else. It’s your life,’ said Eyam.

  The other committee members seemed similarly appalled, but one looked up and said, ‘What you are doing here is illegal.’

  ‘How can that be?’ Eyam shot back. ‘The government has repeatedly denied its existence and Parliament has never been allowed to debate the cost, let alone the principle of DEEP TRUTH. If it does not exist, as they tell us, it follows that it cannot be protected by law.’

  During this exchange a woman had come in through the second door and was speaking to Redpath. He nodded, then made an announcement. ‘Parliament is dissolved and the general election is called. It brings to an end this sitting of the Joint Committee of Human Rights. Mr Eyam, I think you have made your point.’

  Eyam accepted that it was over and thanked Redpath and his committee. Yet no one seemed anxious to leave and then Martingale asked Eyam a question. ‘We’ve risen,’ boomed Redpath, as though Martingale was senile. ‘This Parliament is at an end. The television cameras are being switched off. You cannot continue to examine this witness. It is illegal.’

  ‘It may be irregular but it is not illegal,’ retorted Martingale.

  On the word illegal
the door near Redpath opened and two plainclothes police officers followed by three armed uniformed police came into the committee room and seemingly moved to secure the room. One of the plainclothes officers made his way along the side of the committee table towards the witness table, but before he could reach Eyam he was confronted by a man who seemed to have been projected into the compressed tumult of Committee Room Five from at least two centuries before, a formal courtly figure wearing a chain, some kind of order on his breast, breeches, black silk stockings and patent pumps. He carried a short ebony stick topped by a gold knob.

  It was this that fell forward and poked the policeman in the chest.

  ‘Stand aside, sir,’ said the officer.

  The man’s response was as archaic as his uniform. ‘I am the Gentleman Usher of the Black Rod and I supervise the administration of the House of Lords. I am the law in this place. You shall not pass.’

  ‘Please move, sir. This individual is wanted on serious criminal charges.’

  Kate was suddenly aware of John Turvey, rising from the benches behind her like Rodin’s statue of Balzac. ‘You cannot do this,’ he growled with such sonorous authority that one or two committee members seemed to jump.

  ‘And what business is it of yours?’ said the policeman, now looking slightly less confident. ‘What authority do you have?’

  ‘This man is my client,’ he said. Hearing what was evidently news to him, Eyam permitted himself a brief smile.

  ‘He has no authority here,’ said Redpath. ‘The only person who has now is Black Rod and he has asked you to leave Parliament. The TV cameras are still on. Millions are watching what will happen now, officer. Please go.’ At this a little cheer went up from a dozen MPs who had gathered at the back of the room and in the corridor running alongside the committee room.

  ‘That is the voice of our democracy,’ said Redpath. ‘You disrespect this place at your peril. Now take your officers and leave these precincts.’ The police seemed confounded. Then the officer nodded and they began to withdraw. Redpath waited until the door had closed after them. ‘Now, Mr Eyam, you were saying . . .’

  They were there for another two hours, during which Kate was beckoned outside by Kilmartin: he was standing a little way off with his hand clamped over his mobile. ‘It’s Mary MacCullum,’ he said. ‘She’s with her sister, Alice. They are in hiding and talking to a newspaper. Alice wants to speak to you.’

  Kate looked at him doubtfully and took the phone. ‘Yes, Alice.’

  ‘I know you think I told them which car Chris Mooney and Tony Swift were travelling in,’ she said. ‘But it wasn’t me.’

  ‘Who did?’

  ‘Chris Mooney: I’ve just spoken to his wife. He admitted to her on Saturday evening that he had agreed to tell the Security Service where he was. He said that he had to go along with everything because they had threatened him with ruin. He as good as told us about it the other night in the pub, remember? In the church he was making every excuse not to go. That’s because he wanted Tony to let him off the hook by dropping him.’

  ‘So why did he go?’

  ‘God knows. His wife, Maureen, says that he thought he could get the file to London as well as tell them which car Tony Swift was driving. He was trying to play both sides. She said he wasn’t thinking straight. He was mad with worry.’

  ‘So you weren’t an informer?’

  ‘I’m not saying that,’ said Alice quietly. ‘I gave them everything I needed to in order to keep Mary from being arrested again. I cut a few corners and made up a few stories. Tell David that. Tell him I had to hold them off until I reached Mary and we could go into hiding together. We had a plan, see.’

  ‘And now you’re talking to a newspaper?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Tell them everything, Alice. I mean everything. Tell them how this happened in England. Tell them that even after making a deal with Chris they killed him because they had to eliminate Tony Swift.’

  ‘I will,’ she said and rang off.

  Kate went back with Kilmartin into the committee room. More space had been made for journalists who had long ceased to care about the niceties of parliamentary privilege. Two of the committee had left but ten remained, and were taking turns to question Eyam on the documents in front of them. As the minutes wore on, it became clear that there was something compelling and historic about the events in Committee Room Five. Eventually it was Eyam who decided that enough had been said.

  Several times Kate had seen him catch himself and stop speaking. She knew from watching Charlie that it was the pain surging through him. She whispered, ‘You’ve done what you had to do. You can stop now.’

  He squeezed her hand and continued to talk but with a low, strained urgency and in short sentences, as though each word was costing him dearly. Half an hour later he suddenly stood up, looked around the room, attempted to thank everyone and collapsed into her arms. Miff and Kilmartin jumped up. But Kate took his weight, which now seemed so slight, and helped him from the room and down the corridor in the direction of the House of Lords Entrance. ‘Carry me over floods, Sister,’ he said as they went.

  On their way they passed a TV set. Silent footage was being played of John Temple returning from Buckingham Palace and giving a press conference in Downing Street. Eyam asked her to turn the sound up. Her mother, who had followed them, reached up to the volume control, and squeezed her daughter’s arm. ‘Well done, darling: that was truly splendid.’

  ‘The general election goes ahead,’ Temple was saying with some defiance. ‘The British public will not tolerate these sordid attempts to interfere with the democratic process, for that is clearly what we have witnessed in Parliament today. They will not stand for it and nor will I.’

  ‘Prime minister,’ shouted a voice from behind the cameras. ‘Has Eden White fled the country?’

  ‘Mr White is a valued friend of Britain. No, he has not fled the country. He has, I gather, been called abroad on a routine matter of business.’

  ‘Do you regret invoking the emergency powers?’ another reporter called out. ‘What do you say, prime minister, to those who were held without charge and were not allowed legal representation?’

  ‘I say to the country that I will do anything in my power to safeguard people’s lives. The British public knows that sometimes in government you have to make very tough decisions to protect life. That is what I am here for.’

  ‘Will there be an inquiry into the release of toxic red algae from a government laboratory?’ asked a woman holding a microphone out to Temple.

  ‘That is already underway,’ he replied, forcing a smile. ‘We always promised that every aspect of this affair would be investigated. Now, if you wouldn’t mind, I have an election to fight. No doubt we will be seeing a lot of each over the coming weeks, and you will all be able to put your questions to me during that period.’ He turned towards the door. ‘Thank you.’

  Questions were shouted at his back, but one voice was raised above them all. ‘Will you assure the public that government surveillance of the people’s private lives by the DEEP TRUTH system will be suspended? What do you say to allegations that a foreign power has hacked into the system?’

  Temple stopped, then took a couple of paces back to the microphones. ‘Let me make it quite clear that my government holds dear the rights of the individual.’ This was too much for the reporters, who began to barrack him. ‘I will stop at nothing to defend the people,’ he shouted. ‘Nothing! And it is nonsense to suggest that any foreign power has access to government databases.’

  Kate looked at Eyam’s impassive features.

  ‘Did you see that?’ he asked. ‘The mask slipped.’ It was true that on the word ‘nothing’ John Temple’s expression was suddenly contorted with loathing which seemed to transform his whole appearance. ‘People won’t forget that quickly.’

  ‘A primal scream,’ said Kate. ‘Let’s hope they don’t.’

  Outside it had stopped raining and the sun flooded
Parliament Square. There was no sign of the police who had entered the committee room. Most of the army had gone and the rest of the police were scaling back their operation with the knowledge that the source of toxic red algae lay in a government laboratory over two hundred miles away. A crowd of several thousand waited. Many of them were Bell Ringers who had left the hotel conference centre and hastened to Parliament, each one of them the accidental or intended victim of DEEP TRUTH; and each one with a name that was no longer part of the government database because Darsh Darshan had used a trapdoor in the system to expunge all reference to them.

  A cheer went up when they appeared in Old Palace Yard. Eyam stopped and smiled, but he did not wave because he had no strength.

  ‘It’s like a revolution,’ said Miff excitedly.

  ‘No, Mr Miff,’ said Eyam. ‘Simply a restoration: that’s what we must hope for. The restoration of our rights and privacy: nothing more.’

  The driver who had brought Eyam in the ambulance with Miff came back to help him into the vehicle. Just as he opened the doors, all ten bells of Westminster Abbey sounded at once. Again the people turned their heads, eyes freshening, as though spring was being announced, or someone had decided that life itself should be celebrated.

  ‘The Bell Ringers,’ said Eyam with a smile.

  ‘Bloody England,’ said Kate.

  Afterword

  The Dying Light is set in the future but it is not a futuristic novel. I have projected a little way forward from the position in which Britain finds itself in the summer of 2009, which I now realise is exactly sixty years after the publication of George Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty-Four. It did not occur to me to update his dystopia, or compete with it, because I soon realised it wasn’t necessary. My character, Kate Lockhart, returns from the United States to a country that is completely familiar to us but which also contains much of what is repeatedly described in the press as ‘Orwellian’.

  In the sixty years that have passed since the publication of Orwell’s novel, there has been radical change in Britain. On the whole, these marked advances and restrictions on civil liberties have been quietly introduced with little fuss, debate or reaction from the British public.