“I apologise if I have done wrong,” I attempted after the external doors were locked. “And I suppose you would now normally be in bed after your shift.”
“That is of no consequence at the moment. Come through.”
He led me to one of the other, heavily secured doors I had seen on my previous visit, and paused to allow an instrument to identify his retinal pattern. A green light shone above the door, which clicked open easily despite being of some implausible thickness. He beckoned me through after him, like a parent to a child on the first day of school.
It was an anteroom of some kind, of a generous size: warm, softly lit, with the college’s familiar wood panelling. The carpet was, I suspected, the most luxurious within a large radius. The wall along my left held a number of portraits, the right-most being the familiar face of the man before me. I realised with a throb these were all the Archivists of college history, faces I had never seen, burdened with truths I could never know. The opposite wall held a large pinboard near-overwhelmed by photographs: black and white, colour, small, large, all neatly annotated either by hand or by typewriter or by, I surmised, laser printer. A third wall included two further unmarked doors to destinations unknown.
There were also four large purple-leather chesterfield armchairs, empty until the Archivist took one and indicated I should take another.
“I have never seen this room before,” I said, unable to hide the wonder in my voice. I had a curious, lopsided feeling, as if I had stepped out of my flat in town and found myself in Times Square in New York. “Those photographs—”
“Try not to look too closely. Viewer discretion advised, is I believe the phrase. An old tradition, not unlike maternity wards in which photographs of newborns reassure new admissions about to pop that the staff do, in fact, know how to deliver a baby. It is a record of our success, you might say.”
“That’s… a lot of success,” was all I could manage.
“A large fraction. Some information is still too sensitive even for this room.” He rattled off the next sentence at well-rehearsed speed. “Incidentally, please be assured that in this room we are not being seen or heard or recorded in any way by anyone or anything, within or without.” He coughed. “Now to business. Dr—”
“Wait. Why am I suddenly granted access to all this?”
He sighed. “Because, Dr Flowers, if I might be savagely blunt, you have recklessly and needlessly endangered the college by potentially exposing us to unfettered outside scrutiny. And, in particular,” he hesitated and looked around as if forgetting where he was, “because the Master didn’t stop you.”
“Of course not. The woman has a vendetta against me.”
“You must admit you have not done yourself very many favours. Remember, there is little that escapes the elves and me. There is a file of some thickness.”
I hung my head in agreement, though a gremlin hidden on my shoulder giggled and let off a celebratory party popper.
“But you are correct. She knows the protocol. She knows there are contingencies. And yet she only half-heartedly counselled you on your blundering counter-strike against the newspaper. Worse still, she intervened personally. And all while I slept. This is worrying, Dr Flowers, I make no bones about it.”
“Why did an elf not wake you?” I asked.
He grimaced. It was a sore point. “A confluence of unfortunate coincidences. A shift was swapped, an alarm failed, and an inexperienced elf was given a little too many spaces to cover. I am unhappy, to say the least. Elf-herding can be similar to cat-herding, you understand. I must make allowances. And I cannot personally attend twenty-four hours a day.”
I nodded in sympathy. “I am sure you do your best. It must be especially difficult and confusing to monitor Amanda. Dear god, how fed up you must be of Lulu.”
He allowed himself a rather forlorn laugh and we sat in silence for a second.
“But what’s done is done, and who’s done is recorded,” he said, perking up somewhat. “And we do not have time to introspect. We must act. Hence I have decided to bring you some way into our confidence.”
He leaned forward and I did so too. It seemed appropriate, although the room did slightly spin a little too extravagantly for my tastes.
“You are aware, I am sure, of our national counterparts,” he continued. “MI5 and MI6. The Security Service, and the Secret Intelligence Service. The former with responsibility for domestic threats, the latter for foreign threats.” He smiled, the thrill of revelation sparkling in his eyes. “A similar distinction applies at St Paul’s.”
My eyebrows lifted. “You mean, there are two groups — two Archivists?”
He shook his head. “There can be only one Archivist. That is enshrined. But within my team there are distinct responsibilities, and — without going into too much depth, for operational security reasons you understand — these include intra-collegiate and extra-collegiate activities. It is now time to deploy some operatives in the field. Now, if you’ll follow me through one more door.” He made to rise.
“Before that: what do we do about Amanda?” I asked.
“First things first, Dr Flowers.” He stood and went to one of the inner doors, which slid open gracefully and silently as he approached. Beyond I saw darkness, and the tell-tale glow of banks of screens.
He was taking me to the beating heart of his enterprise, the monitoring stations, where all was seen and noted and classified and stored on behalf of the grateful future.
I followed him in. The room was stifling and poorly fragrant and vibrating with the constant hum of computer and disk. There were two large grids of screens, showing in total perhaps fifty scenes across college: several views peering out across the three courts, and many more within rooms. Four of the Archivist’s elves sat in meditation before the screens, drinking in the detail, bathed in a silvery-blue light — with one floating elf acting, I presumed, as shift leader and toiletry reserve. I recognised one or two. One pair of eyes flickered over and double-took as he realised who I was.
This was my first visit to the Hub, as I learned the elves called it. In truth I had expected more screens, more elves, and my face betrayed me.
The Archivist saw and clapped me on the shoulder. “Automation, Dr Flowers. We cannot physically watch over every room and listen to every microphone. We concentrate — in theory — on the more important narratives. For the rest? Well, we have made great strides over the years in fine-tuning various sensor technologies. Noise activation, heat activation, flesh tone detection, miniaturisation, all deployed to great effect. Not to mention data compression, and automated voice recognition and transcription. We have the world’s largest corpus of pillow talk, you know, all indexed and fully searchable. Fascinating trends. This year the word is ‘babe’, incidentally. What, you thought we would scribble things down on paper?”
“I confess it is more passive than I had anticipated. I suppose I had expected something more akin to a wartime listening station.”
At this he roared. “Perhaps decades ago. We benefit from our reciprocal arrangements, of course, and many Old Paulines have provided us with a steady trickle of technology. But,” he said with no little pride, “there have been one or two PhDs awarded to elves past, on the basis of work pioneered in these rooms. The literature glosses over the precise origins, naturally.”
The Archivist led me on through one final door. Unless I had hopelessly lost my bearings my mental map had me now way under Bottom Court’s central lawn. This was a much quieter, less intense and thankfully fresher room. It appeared almost a workshop, with long benches and equipment and the ubiquitous laptops, and a lone elf wielding a soldering iron. And there stood a conference table, around which sat familiar but unexpected faces.
The Archivist gave me a warm smile, as did they all. “You know everyone, of course, but let me furnish you with a few details they may have inexplicably kept from you.” He gestured to each around the table. “Helen: bursar, but also social engineer. Dennis: Praelect
or with a sideline in what I shall loosely call identity management. Arthur, porter by day, hacker by night. And a new recruit, who will be revitalising our costume department: Jonathan, whom you may also know as Cody. While we have been talking, they have been familiarising themselves with the present situation.”
He directed me to a seat and took one himself.
“Good Lord,” I said. “I am rather overcome. Hungover to buttery, but nevertheless.”
“Welcome, my dear, my dear,” said Dennis. He was positively beaming.
“Colleagues in Truth,” said the Archivist, and I realised the formalities had begun. “We face, I perceive, two dangers. One immediate, one unpredictable. The Bugle and the Master. Either or both might result in the end of our work here, and the end of our college — at least as we currently know and love it.” Around the table heads nodded gravely. “Dr Flowers has unwittingly brought the former upon us, due in no small part to the latter. The former is, I suggest, more urgent.”
Arthur, who always called everyone darling, spoke throatily beneath his hairpiece. “But Amanda’s at the back of all this, darling. Take her off the board and the problem goes away.”
“I’m sorry, Arthur, I don’t agree,” said Helen. “Long term, you’re right of course. Short term, no. We must focus upon the newspaper.”
Dennis added: “Long term we’re all dead, all dead. Some of us not so long.” He chuckled. “Helen is correct.”
Jonathan added quietly, “Newspaper first.” He even blushed shyly.
I had no idea whether this was intended as some form of vote, or whether indeed this was even what one might term a governing council with the Archivist as its supreme authority, but it appeared so. I kept my mouth firmly clamped, believing I was considered an unofficial and rather wide-eyed observer, a fly hovering by the Cabinet table.
“And what say you, Spencer?” To my knowledge the Archivist had never before addressed me with such informality, using my first name.
I stuttered as though suddenly favoured by one I desired. “I— I say the Bugle is the highest priority. Not that my view—”
“Spencer, around this table all have a say, no matter how or why they attend. We realise there is no black, there is no white—”
“All is grey, above, below and beyond,” said the group.
“…and beyond,” added Dennis.
I’d heard the phrase before, with Dennis, in the Archivist’s office now several doors away, and began to understand.
“As Archivist rest assured I have the final responsibility and the final decision.”
I chose not to voice my immediate response: that his decision was very much monochromatic and no tint of grey. I was in any case near erotically grateful for his help.
In the next hour or two, my pounding head began gently to settle and elves brought distinctly non-elven water and sustenance — mere college buffet fare: sad white doughy squares of unidentifiable sandwichesque content, bowls of off-brand ready salted and cheese and onion potato-effect crisp substitutes, and some grass and pebbles and cloth masquerading as a salad. The Archivist and we his knights hoovered up the crisps and as much cuboidal uncertainty as we could stomach, leaving the salad to its fate as some variety of altarpiece, and tiptoed toward a plan.
We took it as read that the Bugle would attack me personally, and my various interests, and no doubt make unsourced, whispered allegations about the charity race I had barely had time to concern myself with.
The paper would most assuredly also try to crack open the shell of the college: “It’s raining albumen,” as Dennis put it. “Hallelujah, hallelujah.” It was thus likely to attempt to unmask the Archivist and reveal the shock horror truth of the archive — without revealing any of the actual shock horror truth it contained, since that would leak slowly and lucratively into the grateful hands of Fleet Street.
Naturally, I told them about Conor, and about Seb and his family history, and how this monstrosity had all come about simply because I believed I could help right an old wrong. And this led to the germ of an idea: to be precise, the flowering of an existing one.
It was decided that to counter the truths, the near-truths and the speculation, we would revisit Seb and Conor’s concept and broaden it and tweak it. There would be no great libel sold to the paper about Amanda, or a famous name with deep pockets: but there were other options. It would be a lie great enough to switch the points and reroute the Bugle’s investigation, and yet demonstrably and obviously false to ensure the overdue demise of their journalistic careers. It was Seb and Conor’s idea revisited, on a grander scale.
But what would the lie be?
Once we had agreed all we could without the active involvement of Conor and Seb, the Archivist and his team began to prepare. One of the elves, a tired-eyed statistician awaiting the end of a shift so he could prepare for an evening recalculating his averages, escorted me from the Archivist’s domain into the light and the air.
It was the afternoon, I discovered, though it seemed a different day, a different world. Despair still pricked at my heart but now I also felt hope. And guilt too, of course, and I had little doubt that emotion would stay with me a while. The tussles in my head showed no sign of concluding, albeit no longer alcohol-derived. Ah well, I thought: fac fortia et patere, do brave deeds and endure. Or as I’d heard it many years before: once you’ve kissed a boy, you fear nothing. Less succinct but more actionable, I think.
It was, I suppose, for the likes of the statistical elf and his friends that I hadn’t immediately packed up my belongings in a tottering pile and headed for a hermit’s life in the Lakes, or perhaps cut out the tediums of middle age and swan-dived under one of the never-ending streams of sightseeing buses that stalked the city. I still had those options open to me if this latest plan failed, as despite the hope I knew it very well could.
Today’s newspaper is tomorrow’s fish paper. Today’s disgraced academic is tomorrow’s case study, dissertation, cautionary tale, comedian’s punchline, and reality show contestant.
It sometimes seemed that the only people permitted to make more than one mistake in life were journalists, and the people who — directly or indirectly — paid them.
The temptation to succumb to the booze was strong and violent, but I had a deal of work ahead. Yet not true, proper work, the work I was paid to do. Although I had a further supervision scheduled for later that afternoon, I had first to descend once again to the dread monster, the purple-eyed Gorgon, and her talismanic biros.
It was, I thought as I knocked on her door, a week since she had summoned me here to thrash and berate me and curse me with her committee. I entered with a steely heart and frisky bowels.
“Dr Flowers,” she said, looking up from some redlined document. “I had been meaning, a chat, to organise.” It was coherent, if excessively teutonic in grammatical tone.
“I felt I should report back to you regarding the newspaper contretemps you witnessed yesterday afternoon,” I countered with a little French and a littler smile, taking the unoffered chair. I did not include cheerfulness in my current emotional milieu but on the whole it seemed wise not to slit my throat there and then.
“Ah. Yes.” Her calmness was unnerving.
“I am sorry to say it did not entirely go according to plan, as you might have detected.”
“So quite.”
“I do not— know how you located us in that room,” I said, generating a rather pleasing double negative with the pause, “but that is no matter. I had no intention to risk the Archivist in person. The information was all faked, forged, concocted. An attempt to deceive Mr Wantage and his newspaper, which was unsuccessful.”
“Please allow me therefore and hereto understand your point.” The biro began to flex and whip between her purple-tipped fingers.
I looked to my feet. “It was an utter failure. I can scarcely imagine worse. Entirely my fault, and mine alone. Consequently, after many hours of careful deliberation, I would like to offer you my
immediate resignation.” I lifted my head and met her mildly steaming spectacles.
The biro stopped. “Immediate, Dr Flowers? Immediate?”
“Immediate, Professor Chatteris. Immediate.”
“I see.”
“I do, of course, wish you every success. Especially with your endeavours next week and beyond.”
She removed her spectacles and wiped them absently on her purple blouse. “Your crypticism favours you not. I am permanently endeavouring. Please increase your specificity to a more acceptable dosage.”
“Well, naturally, the race organisation. I am sure you can identify another SPAIN committee member to crown as chair. The upcoming newspaper exposé you will undoubtedly take pains to focus yourself upon, I am sure.”
The biro ticking began, splat splat splat on the blotter, battering and bloodying an abstract kitten drawn upon it. I kept her gaze. I even ventured a smile. She remained in control, mirroring the smile as best she could approximate, her blinking frequency increasing hesitantly and lumpily. Were I very lucky she might froth from the mouth and slip slowly under her massive desk into a pool of her own distended grammar.
“Let me be absolutely at no risk of unclarity, Dr Flowers,” she said after some dozen seconds of perverted cogitation. “In whole and in part, in sickness and in health, I do reject, deny and disclaim your resignation.”
“You… I’m sorry?” I affected confusion, because I could. I knew the Archivist would be watching.
“I desire your persistence, Dr Flowers. Unhand me your resignation.”
Despite my various shortcomings I have few regrets in life. Occasionally one seeks or is sought by a gentleman who proves uninterested or uninteresting, or one chooses a dark path hiding a thief, and one regrets it when the inevitable emptiness occurs — but only for a short while. I do though most sincerely regret not taking with me into this meeting my own red biro, to tap upon the chair arm while I pretended to consider her request.
The Pink and the Grey Page 15
