Rules of Engagement

by Hurley, Graham

  Now, the order taken, the waiter gone, Bullock sat back and lit a cigarette. One of Cussins’ qualities was his limited patience for small talk. An invitation to lunch was simply a business meeting with a pause for refreshments.

  ‘So …’ Bullock said, ‘you’re back.’

  Cussins nodded, fingering the glass of kir beside his plate. Recently, he’d developed a taste for long-distance sailing. The latest voyage had been to Florida where – coincidentally or otherwise – he had substantial property interests. The blackest days of mid-September had found him 1,500 miles west of the Azores, a typical tribute to his luck, or his judgement. He’d returned only days ago, tanned and fit, his hair bleached white by the sun. The Emergency had clearly passed him by, though he appeared to have been briefed since.

  ‘I understand you had your troubles,’ he said carefully.

  Bullock nodded.

  ‘Yes,’ he said.

  ‘Exciting times?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Cussins paused. ‘Shouldn’t we be doing something?’

  Bullock frowned. For all his clout, Cussins had rarely interfered on the programme side. In fact in a year and a half, Bullock couldn’t remember a single serious proposal. Once or twice he’d raised an eyebrow about conflicts of local interest – major advertisers under the spotlight in some three-minute news report or other – but that was about the limit of his programme involvement. Now, he evidently had other ideas.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Bullock said.

  Cussins looked at him. Very direct. Not a trace of a smile.

  ‘From what I hear, we were pretty much unique. A one-off… That would apply on the programme side, wouldn’t it? The story no one else can tell? The city that stood alone? Wouldn’t there be a market for that kind of film? Wouldn’t that be something we could sell? Nationwide? Break into that network you keep missing so badly?’

  Bullock smiled, acknowledging the dig. The last time the two men had met for lunch, he’d drunk a little too much for his own good, keeping Cussins at the table until mid-afternoon with his stories of the way it used to be, both feet in the network door, high-profile documentaries, awards in San Francisco and New York. Even, nearly, a BAFTA.

  ‘Sure,’ he said, ‘I’m with you.’

  ‘So why don’t we do it?’

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Perfectly.’

  ‘Do you know what it would take?’

  ‘No?’ Cussins shook his head and reached for the kir again. ‘Tell me.’

  Bullock ducked his head a moment, and then began to run through the areas they’d need to cover, the research they’d need to commission, the pressures they’d need to exert to expedite the return of the library film, the arms they’d need to bend, the countless city-wide relationships they’d inevitably jeopardize. He’d had a girl in there himself. Sharp operator. Lots of experience. But she, like the rest, had simply collided head-on with the powers-that-be. She’d taken pictures. Made notes. Yet all she had at the end of it was a scar on the back of her skull, and a determination never to spend another day of her life in a mental hospital.

  Bullock paused here, warming to his theme, flattered in some strange and unexpected way by Cussins’ interest. It was a great idea, he said. Absolutely spot on. In fact he’d been toying with something similar himself. But there were hard realities to take into account. What was at issue here was the raw authority of the State, and the lengths it was prepared to go to to preserve that authority. For a brief period, in unprecedented circumstances, in a single city, the State had revealed its hand, and every official conversation he’d had since convinced him that they were now keen to forget the whole business. The sooner the city’s lost three days were buried, the better. Digging the whole thing up, piecing together the real story behind it all, would be wholly honourable, and he’d love to do it, but that meant doing it properly, and under these circumstances it would be foolish to underestimate the risks, both legal and financial.

  He paused again, his attention briefly caught by the waiter returning with the Chablis in a bucket of ice. When he turned back to Cussins, the man was looking at the table cloth.

  ‘There might be another way…’ he said slowly.

  Bullock frowned.

  ‘Yes.’ He paused while the waiter deposited the ice bucket on the table and began to uncork the bottle. Cussins tasted the wine and nodded. The waiter poured two glasses. Bullock left his beside his plate, still gazing at Cussins.

  ‘Well?’ he said.

  Cussins looked up.

  ‘I’ve been talking to some friends,’ he said. ‘They’re keen to give us all the help they can.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yes.’ He looked out of the window, the magician with the white rabbit. ‘What would you say to an interview with Martin Goodman?’

  ‘Our ex-Controller?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I thought he was ill? Hors de combat?’

  ‘He was,’ Cussins shrugged. ‘Exhaustion. He’s back now. Fit as a fiddle.’ He paused. ‘We could get access, too.’

  ‘Access to what?’

  ‘That bunker of theirs…’ he smiled. ‘The daily logs. Interviews with the other key players. Insights into what they had to do. Just to keep the city going…’ He paused again. ‘I dare say we can get your film back too, if that’s what you need.’ He ran a finger around the rim of his glass. Then he looked up. ‘I just thought it might make something special…’ He shrugged. ‘Back from the Brink. The Inside Story. World exclusive. Isn’t that the way you people work?’

  Bullock hesitated a moment, scenting at last the way it was really going, the old stench, buddies and influence and a determination to keep the cap on the bottle.

  ‘Fascinating,’ he said slowly.

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘Yes…’ He paused, reaching for his own glass. ‘But tell me something.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘On whose terms would we do this thing? Ours or theirs?’

  ‘Ah…’ Cussins smiled again, and raised his glass. ‘That’s something you and I will have to discuss.’

  Bullock looked at him, his own glass still on the table.

  ‘Will or would?’ he said.

  Cussins acknowledged the distinction with a nod. The smile had gone.

  ‘Will,’ he said, ‘I want the thing done.’

  By the time Mick and Albie emerged from the Ensign, it was mid-afternoon. Mick hadn’t seen Albie for more than three weeks. Albie had been out of the city for a while, working for a scrap merchant on a big site somewhere in north London, living in the back of his van, saving every penny he could, building a modest war chest, buying himself time for something he now chose to call ‘the business’. After three pints of Stella, Mick knew all too well what Albie meant.

  They walked across the cobbles and paused at the quayside. The Timothy Lee was moored against a clutter of fishing smacks and harbour runabouts, tied up alongside the big stone wall. The deck was still littered with ropes and tackle, and empty cardboard boxes, debris from the abortive excursion. There was a summons taped onto the wheelhouse window, a demand for three months’ mooring dues. Nobody had seen McNaught since the Harbour Restrictions were lifted, weeks back, but there was a persistent rumour that he’d gone down Channel, Cornwall way, with a pocketful of notes and a vague determination to retire.

  Mick glanced at Albie’s face and knew what was coming. Albie, as usual, had spent lunchtime assaulting the fruit machine, refusing to soften his anger with anything but pineapple juice. Mick put his hand on Albie’s shoulder, an almost paternal gesture.

  ‘Most people,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘would be grateful.’

  Albie looked at him.

  ‘Grateful,’ he repeated, ‘for what?’

  Mick nodded, out towards the water. Boats. Seagulls. Life itself.

  ‘We’re alive, mate. We made it. We ain’t pork kebabs. Ain’t that something?’

  Albie looked unconvinced.
They walked on towards the Timothy Lee, stopping above the wheelhouse. Through the dirty salt-caked windows, Mick could see the empty biscuit tin Cartwright had used to store the cash the night they’d tried to leave harbour. It was wedged between the wheel and the thick plate glass of the window. Albie was looking at it, too.

  ‘We were robbed,’ he said, ‘conned rotten. You thought it up. We made it work. And your little mate ran off with the ackers.’ He glanced across at Mick. ‘That’s bad business, mate, and you know it.’

  Mick shrugged. ‘He’ll be back,’ he said. ‘Bound to be.’

  ‘Yeah? When?’

  ‘Soon. You’ll see.’

  Albie looked at him.

  ‘Been in touch, have you? Nice cosy little phone calls? Kiss and make up?’

  Mick shook his head and turned away.

  ‘Give it a rest, Alb,’ he said.

  Albie stepped in front of him, a refusal to be fobbed off, a gesture of intent.

  ‘How d’you know, then?’ he said. ‘How d’you know he’ll be back?’

  ‘I just do.’

  ‘Yeah. But how?’

  Mick looked at Albie a moment. The boat scam was yesterday’s deal. The world had moved on. Yet trying to coax Albie into accepting these simple facts was pissing in the wind. He smiled.

  ‘Listen, mate…’ he said, ‘I’m sorry the paint thing didn’t work out. I know you worked your bollocks off… Maybe we can do something there, too.’

  Albie stepped towards him, very close. The suspicion had hardened on his face.

  ‘We?’ he said, ‘who’s we?’

  Mick grinned at him, uneasy. Albie would be a bad man to cross, and he knew it.

  ‘You and me, Alb,’ he said hastily, ‘you and me.’

  The Service of Deliverance took place next day, twelve noon, in the city’s cathedral, a smallish building, no bigger than a good-sized parish church, tucked away in the oldest quarter of the city. Annie McPhee arrived forty minutes early, in the front of the Wessex TV Volvo estate car. While the two-man crew unpacked the equipment, she walked slowly around the cathedral, looking for establishing shots, wondering again exactly what Bullock had really meant.

  He’d phoned her the previous evening at her flat in Kensal Rise. It was the first time she’d spoken to him since leaving the city. He asked about her holiday, and she’d said it had been fine, three weeks with friends in a cottage in mid-Wales. She’d hesitated then, knowing she owed him some work on the Falklands project, a proper filming schedule, a plan for post-production, but he’d dismissed her apologies. There was another film, he’d said, closer to home. Something about which he was sure she had a great deal to say.

  She’d asked him to expand, knowing already what it must be, but surprised at how imprecise he was, how little guidance he offered her. The inside story, he’d kept saying. The real McCoy. City Under Siege. Back from the Brink. She’d pushed him further. Who was she to go for? How much time did she have?

  The first question he deflected, telling her she had unlimited access to Martin Goodman, plus the offer of interviews with other heroes of the Emergency.

  His response to the second question was more straightforward.

  ‘A week,’ he’d said simply.

  Annie had blinked.

  ‘A week’s filming?’ she’d said. ‘Is that all?’

  Bullock had laughed at the other end of the phone.

  ‘No,’ he’d told her, ‘a week until transmission.’

  Then he’d put the phone down.

  Now, sixteen hours later, she was only a little wiser. She’d phoned him back, of course, his home number bullied from his secretary. He’d confirmed the transmission date, and assured her that she’d have every post-production facility she’d need. The lot. No expense spared. She’d dismissed this largess with a grunt, telling him it was irrelevant. It was research and shooting time that really mattered, getting the story straight, finding out what had really happened. How could she possibly do that in the three or four days she could afford to spend out on the road?

  To this, Bullock had no real answer. He flannelled about the public appetite for a look inside the Bunker. He emphasized the exclusive nature of the access and told her time and time again that they had a network slot on offer, just seven days away, contingent on their ability to produce.

  ‘We have no choice, love,’ he’d said. ‘Either we grab it with both hands, or we pack up. This could lead to something great.’

  ‘This is something great.’

  ‘Exactly. Go for it.’

  She’d paused, sitting in the tiny window of her upstairs flat. Given this schedule, she’d no choice but to accept the official line, the hook buried deep in all this lovely access they were being offered. It was an impossible brief, and Bullock must have known it before he’d said yes.

  ‘You’re mad,’ she’d said, ‘this is crazy.’

  ‘You don’t want to do it?’

  ‘That’s not what I said. I just remember all those conversations, you know, pre-war…’ she’d paused, ‘the secret state. Goodman. All that.’ She’d paused again. ‘Amazing what a network slot can do.’

  ‘That’s cheap.’

  ‘Yeah. But true.’

  She’d asked him again, as nicely as she knew how, then a third time, forceful, stopping just this side of abuse, a major row. But at the end of it all, Bullock exhausted, she’d simply shrugged and said she’d do her best. Twelve noon at the cathedral, he’d reminded her. Goodman will be expecting you.

  Now, she returned to the car. The cameraman had readied the camera, a new lightweight Sony. She explained the shots she needed, the wide angle framed by the big oak tree, the tilt-down from the tower to the stained glass window at the other end of the transept. The cameraman nodded, shouldering the tripod and camera and wandering away. The sound recordist followed, tethered by a length of umbilical cable.

  Annie ducked into the cathedral, a big, cool, dark space smelling faintly of incense. A verger in a long black cassock was distributing hymn books and an Order of Service to each chair. There was a spare pile of the Service sheets on a long refectory table. She took one. A Service of Deliverance it read, And of Thanksgiving. She glanced down at the lines of careful type. Martin Goodman was reading the second lesson. Samuel II, 22. She folded the single sheet of paper and put it in her pocket. Maybe there was some reference in the biblical text, some subtle irony or other, unintended, undetected, some tiny chink in the man’s official armour. She caught the thought as it began to develop, realizing how tightly they’d sealed it all up, how desperate she must be if it had truly come to this.

  She shook her head, dismissing the thought. Tomorrow, Bullock had scheduled the major interview: four whole hours with the ex-Controller in the Bunker, hers to use as she pleased. A series of action sequences and reconstructs to give her pictures for the Emergency itself, plus a long, in-depth interview. She smiled, heading for the door again, feeling a little better. Then, at least she could pin him down, put him on the spot: about her own experiences, the roadblock, the mental hospital, plus the still unexplained death of Jason Duffy. Tomorrow, at least, she’d be on home ground. Tomorrow, who knows, she might even crack it.

  Gillespie left home deliberately late, forcing himself to hurry the mile and a half to the cathedral. His mind, for once, was totally blank. He was wearing a pair of slacks and an old blazer, and a tie and shirt he’d found in a long-discarded holdall. Dressed this way, Gillespie felt like a stranger, someone he didn’t know, someone he’d never known. A penance, he thought, rounding the corner into the High Street, watching the first of the official cars sweep past on its way to the cathedral, and thinking, quite suddenly, of the dead girl at Ocean Towers.

  Annie McPhee saw the big Daimler in the distance, the mayoral pennant on the bonnet, and told the cameraman to start filming. He did so, pulling the shiny black car towards him with the telephoto lens, his fingers twitching on the focus. Behind the Mayor’s car, he could see a low, sleek
Jaguar, also black, and he became aware of Annie’s whispered instruction in his ear.

  ‘Second car,’ she said, ‘tall bloke with glasses.’

  The Mayor’s car glided to a halt at the kerbside, and the Bishop stepped forward to offer an official welcome. A crowd had gathered by now, kids, mums, dads, some just passing by, simply curious, others clad in suits and formal dresses, waiting to file in behind the big wigs and take their seats in the cathedral.

  The Mayor emerged from the Daimler. The Bishop shook him by the hand and turned towards the cathedral in a swirl of purple. The other car stopped. A door opened. Goodman stepped out.

  ‘Left,’ hissed Annie, ‘go left.’

  The cameraman did so, a slow gentle movement riding the focus all the way, introducing a new player to the scene. Annie followed the pan. The last time she’d seen Goodman had been at the flats, a face in her own viewfinder, a man in a black suit trying to make sense of the noise, and the anger, and the dull ugly thud of falling rocks and rubble. Then, he’d looked first bewildered, then frightened. When the soldier closest to him had fallen, he’d stayed with him, and Annie remembered admiring the man, the folly and the blindness of his courage.

  Now, he looked very different. He was composed, serious, but he’d been somewhere hot, somewhere relaxing, and it showed. His face was tanned brown. The eyes were alert, flicking left and right, a gleam of recognition here, a nod there, the faintest hint of a smile for someone he recognized in the Bishop’s entourage. In the four weeks since she’d left the city, something had happened to this man, something that gave the lie to Bullock’s conviction that he’d suffered some kind of breakdown. The man had calm, poise, self-assurance. He was playing the scene for all it was worth, a slight stoop, a hint of some mysterious wound or other, a man who’d felt the heat, a leader baptized by fire, a star in the making.

  At a lifted finger from the cameraman, Annie stepped towards Goodman, smiled a greeting, and guided him deftly into camera range. The sound recordist passed her a microphone. The cameraman adjusted the shot.