Rules of Engagement

by Hurley, Graham

  For the next hour, Mick put together every combination he knew to try and float the business out of trouble. He thought about a cut price, one-off sale of his lingerie stock. Any three items for a fiver. Any eight for ten. The idea sounded great in theory, cheques flooding in from everywhere as a tidal wave of scarlet G-strings and assorted leatherware broke upon a grateful nation. But it had been Albie, as ever, who’d reminded him of the organization required, the postal delays, and the growing likelihood that people might have other things on their minds.

  Next, he’d thought of a drugs hit. He scored his own cocaine from an ex-croupier who’d abandoned the gaming tables for a full-time career in the narcotics trade. He packaged his deals in a big house out on the mainland, and transacted his business from the driving seat of an ‘F’ reg Mercedes, and although he never said a word about his sources of supply, Mick knew for a fact that he drove up to London twice a week, buying in bulk from someone in Notting Hill. His one weakness was for black ladies, whom he consumed in great numbers, and the journeys back from London were often made in the middle of the night. Child’s play, Mick told Albie, to lay on a modest ambush, and liberate the coke, and thus get Harry off their backs. Albie, once again, had been unimpressed, sipping his pineapple juice with the air of a man bored with fairy tales.

  ‘You’re off your head,’ he said, when Mick had finished. ‘You’ll end up in tins of dog food.’

  After drugs, Mick had wandered disconsolately up one or two other alleys – the property business, a gambling scam, or something really tacky like doing a sub-Post Office – but whatever he came up with, wherever he turned, the same brutal deadline hung over their heads. Fifty grand. Forty-eight hours. Or else.

  Finally, with Albie in a corner feeding small change into a fruit machine, he’d stumbled on the Big One. A small, bronzed Frenchman, very obviously a yachtie, was standing beside him at the bar. He wanted change for a hundred-pound note, five tens and a fifty. Mick, mellowed by the Stella, had attracted the barman and organized the exchange. The Frenchman had extended his hand, a formal gesture of thanks. Mick had beamed at him. Playing the affable Englishman, he hoped he was enjoying his stay. The Frenchman had nodded vigorously, and said that England was a fine place, but that he and his family must keep heading west. He’d stopped only for water, and fresh vegetables. He would now resume his journey before they closed this city too.

  Mick’s smile froze for a moment. He blinked at the Frenchman. He asked him to repeat what he’d just said. The Frenchman, glancing at his watch, obliged. The French ports, he explained, were closing down. The military had taken over and all private boats had been requisitioned. No questions permitted. No exceptions made. Soon, it would happen here. Tomorrow, perhaps, or the next day. The British, after all, were always a little … he frowned, searching for the right word.

  ‘Slow on the uptake?’ said Mick thoughtfully.

  ‘Oui,’ nodded the Frenchman, heading for the phone. ‘Exactement.’

  Mick turned slowly back to the bar, reaching for his third pint. Albie joined him, with a handful of pound coins. He let them fall on the counter.

  ‘Twenty quid,’ he said. ‘Forty-nine thousand to go. Give or take.’

  Mick glanced up at him.

  ‘Careful,’ he said, ‘you nearly made a joke.’

  Albie played deaf, ordering another pineapple juice and a cheese sandwich. Mick bent towards him, highly confidential.

  ‘Listen,’ he said, ‘I’ve cracked it.’

  Albie leaned across the bar, catching the barman by the lapel of his new cotton jacket.

  ‘Remember,’ he said. ‘White bread. No pickle.’

  The barman nodded, repeated the order, and disappeared. Albie resumed his seat. Mick waited for him to settle.

  ‘I’ve cracked it,’ he said again.

  ‘Cracked what?’

  ‘The problem. The fifty grand.’

  Albie looked at him, amused.

  ‘Arms dealing?’ he said.

  ‘No.’

  ‘A kidnap?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What then? Surprise me.’

  Mick crossed one leg over another, enjoying the tension, taking his time.

  ‘Tell me …’ he said, nodding around at no one in particular, ‘what happens to this lot when there’s no more petrol?’

  ‘They take the bus.’

  ‘And what happens when there’s no more buses?’ He smiled. ‘Or trains, or anything? And when the roads are so jammed no one move anyway?’

  Albie frowned.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Mick leaned forward.

  ‘People are talking about a war, Albie. The real thing. This place is Ground Zero. Target Number One. Numero Uno.’ He nodded at the window. ‘Naval port. Repair facilities. Ammo dumps. You name it. So…’ he moistened the end of his finger in a pool of spilled beer and began to trace the outline of the island on the bar, ‘loads of punters…all wanting out…before the Russians arrive and drop the big one.’ His eyes rose skywards ‘With me so far?’

  Albie nodded, still sceptical.

  ‘Yeah…’

  ‘So…’ Mick’s finger tracked towards the landward side of the island, ‘what happens when there’s no petrol and no transport and no trains and no anything, and they’re making if difficult to get onto the mainland because they don’t want us all slopping around the countryside, and everybody’s going to bed shit scared they’re going to wake up as pork kebabs? Eh, Alb? What happens then?’ He paused, intense, dramatic, the peddler of doom. ‘Remember, Alb, a lot of these people have wives, kids, families. Nothing’s moving any more so they’ve got fuck all to do except sit on their fannies and wait to be blown away. So think about it. Go on. Think. What are they gonna want most in life? Eh?’

  ‘Out,’ said Albie.

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘But you say they can’t get out.’

  ‘No. Not by road they can’t.’ He paused again, leaning forward, inviting Albie to share his secret. ‘So what do they do?’

  Mick looked at him, waiting for an answer, waiting for the penny to drop. Albie caught sight of his cheese sandwich, returning in the hands of the barman. He examined it closely, lifting the top slice to make sure they’d left out the pickle. Mick reached over, tapped him on the knee.

  ‘Boats, Alb. We need to get into boats.’

  He glanced across at the phone. The Frenchman was pocketing his change from the refund slot and heading for the door. Mick got off his stool.

  ‘Listen,’ he said, ‘it’s brilliant. Let’s try it on Cartwright.’

  The Conference at the Civic Centre broke up at 2 p.m. The meeting had ended with an agreement to create a number of subcommittees, each charged with trouble-shooting a particular aspect of the problems posed by Davidson’s brisk announcement: how best to curtail the train schedule, what to do about the postal service, how to maintain food supplies into the city, whether or not to suspend the parking regulations, what provisions to make for DHSS benefits when the banks and Post Offices were no longer open. The main committee, with a handful of unavoidable absentees, would reconvene the following morning.

  As the meeting broke up, Goodman found himself cornered by Nigel Quinn. The policeman had a pale, set expression on his face, and it took Goodman a moment or two to realize that he was very angry indeed.

  ‘It’s lunacy,’ he said at once, ‘madness.’

  Goodman smiled, trying not to look too resigned. In truth, he shared Quinn’s feelings, but that was hardly the point.

  ‘It’s what they want,’ he said simply. ‘Our Master’s voice.’

  ‘But have they thought the thing through?’ Quinn said. ‘Have you? Has anyone?’ He shook his head at once, answering his own question. ‘No,’ he said, ‘because they can’t. Because the whole thing’s bloody impossible.’

  ‘Lipscombe seems quite sanguine,’ Goodman pointed out. The Brigadier had accepted Davidson’s announcement without a murmur. He seemed to h
ave prior knowledge of the plan, and saw no real problem. Quinn was scornful.

  ‘Lipscombe?’ he said. ‘The Army? Do you know how many men they’re proposing to send in?’

  Goodman shook his head.

  ‘Four hundred or so?’ he guessed. ‘Five?’

  ‘Fifty.’ Quinn was contemptuous. ‘Reservists to a man.’

  ‘Perhaps he’s found some more.’

  ‘Where from?’ He paused. ‘There are no more troops. They’ve all gone to Germany. The cupboard’s bare.’

  ‘I see.’

  Goodman hesitated, feeling less than adequate. These were numbers he should have known for himself. Had Eric not been in hospital, had he had time to read the briefings, he’d have been up to speed. As it was, he was trailing badly. Perhaps tonight he’d find time to wade through the file. Perhaps early tomorrow morning. He looked Quinn in the face. The two men had never got on. He considered Quinn a time server, one of yesterday’s breed of policemen, cautious, and bureaucratic, and slow on his feet. Quinn, in turn, regarded the young acting Chief Executive as hopelessly out of his depth, a lightweight with a flashy management degree, a great deal of ambition, and far too much charm for his own good. The fact that he was now in overall charge, Controller-Designate, capable of turning the entire city into a personal fiefdom, he found difficult to believe. Now, having sat through the Conference, he was practically certain that Goodman was simply a cipher for Whitehall control, someone who’d make the right noises, and let Davidson get on with it.

  He tucked his papers into his briefcase, and snapped the lock shut.

  ‘I’ll phone you later,’ he said to Goodman, and turned on his heel, and left.

  Goodman watched him go, letting his own anger subside. He was perfectly aware of the other man’s contempt, but he saw no point in giving him the satisfaction of a public row. There’d undoubtedly come a confrontation, but he’d make sure it happened on his own terms, and on his own territory. A figure appeared at his side. Dark suit. Rimless glasses. Watery smile. Davidson.

  ‘Oliver,’ he said pleasantly. ‘You certainly chose your moment.’

  Davidson acknowledged the comment with a small, neat dip of his head.

  ‘Had to be done,’ he said. ‘I hope it wasn’t too much of a shock.’

  ‘Not at all. I’m sure we’ll all cope.’

  The room began to empty, figures hurrying away down the corridor towards the lifts, one or two in conversation, the rest preoccupied, deep in thought. Each of these men would spend the next eighteen hours standing their jobs on their heads – how not to run the trains on time, how not to keep the schools open – and each one would have to battle the instincts of a lifetime to come up with some sort of realistic plan. Goodman’s job would then be to jigsaw their proposals together, to shape a strategy that would withstand the stresses of the next few days, and ease the city into the No Man’s Land between peace and war.

  Joanna Goodman arrived at school a minute or so earlier than usual, parking her Metro in a cul-de-sac across from the school gates. She checked that Charlie was still asleep in his carrycot on the back seat before joining the gaggle of mothers waiting for their kids to emerge at the end of the school day.

  Joanna crossed the road, nodding a greeting to faces she barely knew, looking for someone to talk to. Standing to one side was Molly Quinn, the policeman’s wife. Joanna had spoken to her several times before, and had liked her on sight. She was an older woman, in her mid-forties, with a big, slightly masculine face, and a warm smile. She wore long cotton skirts and very old pullovers, and exuded an air of cheerful disorganization. She had four boys, and her youngest son, Gary, was the star of the school’s football team. Thus the bag of sports gear at her feet.

  Joanna joined Molly, nodding at the bag.

  ‘Forgotten his things again?’ she said.

  ‘As ever.’ Molly pulled a face. ‘Mind like a sieve.’

  ‘Incredible, aren’t they, James would forget his name if he had half a chance.’

  They shared the joke together, keeping the conversation going, discussing their kids, their idiosyncrasies. Joanna knew that her husband had no time for Nigel Quinn, and she suspected that the antipathy was mutual. Not that Molly would care less. She was far too independent for that. The older woman abruptly changed the subject.

  ‘Have you heard the rumour?’ she said.

  ‘What rumour?’

  ‘About the school.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘They say it’s going to close.’

  ‘What?’ Joanna frowned. ‘Forever?’

  ‘No. Just for a bit. While this wretched business sorts itself out.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yes.’ Molly looked at her, as direct as ever. ‘I wondered whether that clever husband of yours might have said anything. He’d know. Bound to.’

  Joanna shook her head and peered over the hedge towards the low brick buildings that housed the classrooms.

  ‘No,’ she said, ‘he hasn’t said a word. Not that I ever see him.’

  Joanna felt the other woman smiling at her, another bond between them, another point of mutual contact, hard-pressed husbands, never home. She glanced back to return the grin, to share the joke, but when she did so, she saw something else in the smile, curiosity perhaps, a question mark, maybe even sympathy, and she knew at once that something was wrong, badly wrong, and that other people knew it too.

  She tried to shake the thought loose, and shrug it all off, to talk about the kids again, or the weather, but instead she felt herself beginning to tremble uncontrollably, which only made the whole thing worse. Across the playground, the school bell began to ring, and she thanked God for the sound of chairs scraping back from desks, and children’s voices, and the slamming of distant doors. She swallowed hard, and mumbled her excuses to Molly, and pushed forward into the onward rush of blue blazers.

  On the way home, in the car, Caroline sat beside her with James in the back. They’d stopped at the corner shop for choc ices, a treat, and James was leaning forward between the front seats, trying to describe the latest member of his playground gang between mouthfuls of melting hazelnut. She half listened to him, the endless happy burble that was his world, unable to rid her mind of the scene at the school gates. Molly Quinn. The rumour about the school closure. And then that gently quizzical look, that moment of absolute truth between the two women. She slowed for a roundabout, automatically looking down to check that Caroline was properly belted in.

  ‘Jo Jo…’ she began, looking up at the face in the driving mirror.

  The child frowned, concentrating on the last of his ice cream.

  ‘Yes, Mummy?’

  ‘How would you like to come to Granny’s for a day or two?’

  ‘Granny’s?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can we?’

  ‘If you want to, darling.’

  Caroline looked up at her.

  ‘All of us?’ she said. ‘Daddy too?’

  Joanna said nothing for a moment. She wanted to stop and hug both her kids. Charlie, too. She wanted to tell them that everything would be OK. That their world was intact. For the second time that day, she felt the tears beginning to well up in her eyes. Absurd. Crazy. Pure imagination. She looked quickly away, masking her tears.

  ‘I expect so, darling,’ she said at last. ‘If he’s not too busy.’

  Goodman studied the harbour master’s face very carefully as he took them once again through the argument. Cut the city off from the landward side, he said, and you instantly create pressure elsewhere. People would still want to get away. Stood to reason. Couldn’t blame them. Road-blocks on the major city exits. Armed guards. Barbed wire. God knows what else. Result? Chaos afloat. There’d be bodies everywhere, he assured them, damn-fool instant sailors without a day’s experience to their name. The rescue services would be hopelessly overstretched. The whole thing appalled him, and the Navy wouldn’t stand for it either. The harbour, and the coastal approaches, had become a
Military Zone. The country had a war to fight. Everyone else must stay put.

  Davidson began to reply, but Goodman held him back. It was time, he decided, to make his presence felt.

  ‘So what do you suggest?’ he said.

  The harbour master pursed his lips, and Goodman knew at once that he’d thought the whole thing through, drawn up a mental agenda, a list of priorities, detailed measures to keep the thing good and tight.

  ‘Number one,’ he said, ‘we need a register of all seaworthy boats. That means marinas. Club anchorages. Commercial fishermen. The lot. Even dinghies.’

  ‘Done,’ Davidson said quietly.

  Goodman looked at him in surprise.

  ‘Really?’ he said.

  Davidson nodded.

  ‘Last two days. Naval Provost.’

  Goodman made a note on his pad but said nothing. The harbour master extended a second finger, ticking off the measures one by one.

  ‘Two. We need solid controls on diesel. No diesel, no go.’

  Goodman nodded.

  ‘No problem,’ he said. ‘The refineries are cutting off distribution tomorrow. Supplies will be exhausted within days. That applies to diesel as well.’

  The harbour master shook his head.

  ‘Not good enough,’ he said. ‘What about current stocks?’

  ‘Prohibition on sales.’

  ‘Can you enforce that?’

  Goodman hesitated a moment, out of his depth. Davidson’s voice again, softer than ever.

  ‘Yes,’ he said.

  The harbour master shot him a glance, appraising, sceptical.

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good.’ The harbour master returned to his check-list but Goodman interrupted.

  ‘What about yachtsmen?’ he said. ‘People with their own boats? Prepared to risk it without fuel? You can hardly stand in their way.’

  The harbour master stared at him, impatient as ever.

  ‘That’s the whole point,’ he said, ‘that’s what I’m talking about. We need controls, powers, authority. We need a Proclamation. A total ban on the movement of private craft. On the harbour and offshore. One or two special dispensations. But only in a handful of cases.’ He looked at Goodman. ‘Possible?’