by John Brunner
A pittance. But he had to grab it.
Despite its apparent political neutrality, Jake seemed to have given up on the story of the criminal children. Without putting it into so many words, he appeared to have decided that the project was a waste of time. When the criminals had taken power, what point was there in worrying about a bunch of kids?
“And can you blame him?” Peter said bitterly to Claudia and Bernie when they next met. Ellen had invited them all for dinner; she was turning into an excellent and ambitious cook, capable of conjuring tasty dishes out of unpromising ingredients. Thank goodness, as Bernie said, for those who remembered what to do with odds and ends, because they had inherited the tradition of peasant poverty and didn’t insist on being fed from cans and freezer packs.
The cost of which was soaring as North Sea oil ran out ahead of the predicted schedule.
“Jake, you mean?” Claudia sighed, reaching for her glass. It held beer: homemade. Anything more expensive was now beyond Peter’s means. Last week he had offered TV Plus a promising scandal concerning sausages made from AIDS-infected pork supplied to public hospitals by a prominent supporter of the government, but it had been scotched under the Official Secrets Act. So his fee had been withheld.
Sometimes he had considered discarding the red-white-and-blue ribbon he still wore, but it was too risky now to go without one—at least, if you were white. Watching Ellen as she cleared away the dishes, humming to herself, he wondered how much longer she would be able to wear hers at school, before it was torn away on the grounds that she wasn’t British.
Correction: English. Here in London schoolyard gangs of self-styled “Cockneys” were starting to attack the Scots, Welsh and Irish, along with the—what had that fanatic said who shot the archbishop?—the “wogs and niggers” who were inferior to him, a white Christian…
He roused on realizing that someone had spoken: Bernie? Yes.
“At least Jake seems determined to go down with flying colors. You heard about the petrol-bomb attack?”
“What?”
“This afternoon. The Comet has this display window at street-level, right? Some yobbos in a stolen car threw a fire-bomb at it. No damage worth mentioning, luckily. But still what you might call a less than healthy trend.”
Smiling broadly at the success of her meal, Ellen returned from the kitchen and sat down on the sofa next to Peter. She had become a part of their group, and there was no longer any question of her retreating to her room.
“Sometimes I’m tempted to emigrate,” Bernie went on. “But where on earth could I go? Xenophobia in the States is peaking again and in any case the country’s due to go bust, same as Britain—Canada’s in the throes of another fit of Francophilia—Australia’s trying to turn itself into an anti-Japanese bulwark and inside a generation it’s liable to be as racist as South Africa… As for the rest of Europe, they’re on such an anti-American kick they don’t want to know people who speak only English. Even the Dutch and Danes are going back to German as a foreign language.”
“Keep going,” Claudia said tartly. “You’ve left out the Arab world, for starters—”
“And Asia!” Ellen chimed in. “Who’d want to live in India when there’s practically a civil war going on?”
Peter started. It was the first time, to his recollection, that she had voluntarily mentioned her mother’s country of origin. But all he could read on her pretty face was simple sadness, as though at far too early an age she had grown resigned to the waywardness of humanity.
What an inheritance for a teenage kid!
After that, for a long while, there seemed little left to say. It was only after Ellen had re-adopted her hostess role and topped up their glasses that they reverted to the topic they were supposed to be discussing. Typically, and in a typically caustic tone, it was Claudia who set the ball rolling.
“What I can’t help wondering,” she said, addressing Bernie, “is why, since you’ve gotten so far, you can’t get any further, especially with the tracing of Louis Parker. If you see what I mean.”
Sourly he replied, “I do, and I wish I could explain. You’ll have to take my word for it, I’m afraid. My best guess is that this growser caught on before you did.”
Peter leaned forward. “So you agree that he’s the likeliest candidate?”
“Are there any others? But—okay, I have to grant that on the basis of what you told me he seems like a prime suspect. Physical appearance—the fact that he was working in computers—and the fact that he’s either dead or in hiding—yes, it does add up to a fair case.”
“In hiding?” Claudia stabbed.
“Or, I suppose, out of the country. But I’ve run a program to search every accessible phone directory and now I’m following up with one to search every postal reference. I do mean every. It’s costing an arm, a leg and a prick, and the balls come next! Jake isn’t going to be at all happy when he sees the final bill—Oh, excuse me, Ellen.”
She gave a crowing laugh, leaning back and crossing her legs. Of late, as though out of defiance, she had taken to wearing traditional Indian garb, and the sari she had on, bought second-hand at a Saturday jumble-sale, was of shiny lavender fabric that caught reflections from the wall-lights.
“Never mind! I hear far worse things at school!”
Peter put his arm around her and drew her close. He was becoming more and more attached to this unwanted daughter.
“In spite of all,” he said, addressing Bernie, “there’s no trace?”
“Louis Parker might as well have dug himself a hole, climbed in and pulled it after him.”
“So that blocks off one approach. Claudia, what about you? You suggested contacting ex-employees of fertility clinics. Did you get anywhere?”
She looked at him steadily.
“You told me it was hopeless. Remember? You said there were too many and there was no reason to expect—”
“Grief!” Peter burst out. “I was only pointing out the difficulties—”
“You didn’t give me that impression,” Claudia cut in coldly.
Bernie uttered a loud sigh, setting by his empty tankard. “Sometimes,” he muttered, “I wonder what you lot are up to. When you hit on an idea, why the hell don’t you try it out? I did!”
Embarrassed, Peter and Claudia looked a question at him.
“Aren’t the former staff of the Chinn-Wilkinson among the first people you should have talked to? Frankly, I thought you had done!”
Peter said defensively, “It was a long time ago, and I don’t remember many of their names—”
“Oh, shit,” Bernie muttered. “They’re on record. For instance, who was Dr. Chinn’s head nurse?”
“Ah…” For a moment Peter hesitated. Abruptly he snapped his fingers. “Sister Higgins! Thank you for reminding me! And why the hell didn’t I think of her before? She was getting on, but she could still be alive!”
“And you didn’t tell me?” Claudia burst out. “Why, I’ve been sitting around chewing my nails! I could have—”
“Do you remember Sister Higgins’s first name?” Ellen put in, just in time to defuse a full-blown quarrel. She had risen from her seat and stood with one hand poised above the computer keyboard.
Calming himself with an effort, Peter said, “Uh—yes! Marian! I’m not sure whether it’s Mari-an or Mari-on, but I do remember that’s what Dr. Chinn used to call her.”
Dropping into the chair before the board, Ellen called up the telephone directory. They all waited in silence until she said, “Sorry. Nothing for Higgins Marian spelt either way.”
“Not to worry!” Bernie cut in. “If you—”
“I know!”—with abrupt annoyance, swinging to face him.
“What?”
“What you were going to say.”
“That being—?”
“You can access out-of-date directories. If she ever had a phone in her own name in the London area, even if she was entered as plain ‘Higgins M,’ the exchange still knew s
he was Marian. If she’s moved elsewhere, there’s a contact facility for emergency use, for instance if she’s been taken ill and relatives are trying to get in touch. Isn’t that what you were going to explain?”
Bernie froze for a moment, disconcerted, half in and half out of his chair. At length he subsided with a grunt.
“Keep at it, lady. You have the makings of a hacker. Did you write the search program yourself?”
“No, I didn’t bother. I found it in real time. I don’t have too much to do in the evenings nowadays.”
Which was true, Peter reminded himself ruefully. Even those of her boyfriends who had seemed most enthusiastic a few weeks ago had now abandoned her. The—infection? Yes! The infection of what was suddenly being called “Throwerism” had struck that deep that fast, like a surgeon’s lance releasing a flood of pus from an ulcer. Even the “nice” kids that the friendly minder Jeannette took care of after school had imitated their parents’ hardening intolerance. Had it not been for Ellen’s thrice-a-week cleaning job…
Overwhelmed with dismay, he was all set to reproach himself in public for neglecting his daughter when she cried, “Gotcha!”
Just in time…!
They crowded around the machine, staring. There it was:
“HIGGINS Marian Martha. Sex: F. UK citizen with right of residence. Marital status: S. Birthplace: Huyton, Lancs. Parents: HIGGINS William Brian; HIGGINS Karen née Thwaites. Age last b’day: 73. Profession: nursing sister (ret’d). PNC status—”
“She had a police record?” Peter burst out. “I can’t believe it!”
Claudia hushed him as the display scrolled upward.
“—suspected involvement in unauthorized abortion/s. No confirmation. Latest reported domicile—”
“That’s what we want!” Peter rasped, but Ellen was ahead of him, and had already dumped the data into local memory, wiped the screen, and ordered the address to be printed.
“You do have the makings of a hacker!” Bernie said approvingly. “Peter, does that sound like her?”
“Absolutely,” Peter murmured as he looked at the printout. “Just one problem.”
“What?”
“I happen to recognize this address. It was one—”
“Don’t tell me!”—from Claudia. “One that you went to while you were working for Continuum?”
“Yes, dammit!”
“So?”
“It’s a hospice for people suffering from Alzheimer’s. If that’s where she’s wound up, we don’t stand much chance of getting any data out of Sister Higgins.”
“Maybe she’s on the staff—”
“At seventy-three?”
“Okay. ‘Six impossible things before breakfast…’ But I’ll look into it, anyway. I only wish you’d thought of it before!”
Peter bridled, prepared to blame her for his own oversight. Once more, in the nick of time, Ellen intervened, offering the last of the homemade beer, and the atmosphere calmed.
When the others had left, Peter so far recovered his self-possession as to knock on Ellen’s door and, on her invitation, enter. Rising drowsily from her pillow, she looked a question.
“I’m sorry,” he muttered, brushing her cheek with his fingers. “I’m going through a bad patch.”
“Oh, I know,” was her reply. “But I am doing what I can to make it easier, aren’t I?”
“Yes!”
“That’s all right, then. Good night… Hey, just a moment!”
He had already turned toward the door. Checking, he glanced back.
“You heard what Bernie said? I have the makings of a hacker?”
“Yes, of course.”
“What do you think?”
Peter hesitated. Was it good or bad to be a hacker in this strange and changing world? He opted for good.
“I’m sure he meant it as a compliment. What’s more, I think he was absolutely right.”
“That’s what I hoped you’d say. G’night…”
Her words dissolved into a sigh, and before he closed the door again she was asleep.
With the onset of autumn, night by night the mist grew denser that drifted up from the stagnant, filthy river. Older folk, imprisoned at home with nothing but TV for company, abandoned the city’s streets to youngsters like Terry Owens and his mates—except, of course, that there was in fact no one like Terry—sporting their pro-Thrower ribbons. A few had had their foreheads tattooed with Union Jacks in token of patriotic fervor. Rio had considered that, but Terry had dissuaded him.
Nightly, in consequence, black families huddled in fear of the bricks and petrol-bombs that might be hurled into their living rooms; Indian and Pakistani shopkeepers replaced their windows with armor-glass—if they could afford to, and if they could find someone willing to sell it to them; otherwise they boarded up with corrugated iron—and the proprietors of Chinese takeaways installed closed-circuit video-cameras recording images every ten seconds on a VCR secure behind a solid wall.
Not, of course, that the police gave an ounce of dogshit for that sort of evidence. But there was a brotherhood now, that had learned to tell Europeans apart, and on occasion even the cowed BBC managed to mention—at least hint at—the way the Chinese community had come to admire their mainland cousins, rather than their families in or from Hong Kong. As for their opinion of their former overlords, who had so cheaply sold their home land…!
In addition, the smouldering warlets of the subcontinent were finding an outlet in most British cities. Sikhs and Tamils and Bengalis and Pakistanis and members of other groups known beforehand only to specialists were venting bitter grudges in this foreign land, and woe betide whoever stood in their way.
As for the Cypriots, whether Greek or Turkish, scarcely a day went by without another murder, save when they united against the British if they tried to interfere. By now the police had given them up for lost, as they had the black areas of most post-industrial towns.
All that was the background to the arrival on Terry’s manor of the gray Rolls Royce.
When he first heard about the silent, splendid car, as gray and glistening as the mists through which it prowled, his reaction had been one of scorn.
“Lose it, you bocky cank! Who’d bring a Roller into streets like these?”
Rio ventured, “After cunt, maybe?”
“Shit! You can afford a Roller, you can afford a better class of slag!”
“They do say,” Taff murmured, “there are growsers who can only get turned on by dirty scrubbers.”
“Hah!” Terry exclaimed. “Didn’t know you were a psychologist!”
That made Taff blush and turn away. Briefly Terry exulted in his power to control these older, stronger boys.
Then Barney said obstinately, “I don’t like it, Terry.”
“Who’s asking you to?”
“I don’t like it!” he repeated. “No one knows who’s in it, get me? It’s loaded with these very heavy tints, like the cars the Mafia use in America. Like on TV.”
“I don’t watch TV too much. You know that.”
“Yeah, I know. But”—with increasing confidence—“maybe you should. Sometimes, at any rate.”
“Look,” Terry said with forced patience, “if the tints are that heavy, how can the driver see in the dark?”
“Got these infrared lights,” Taff countered. “You put on these special glasses—”
“But the tints on a Roller are supposed to keep out both infrared and ultraviolet,” Terry cut in.
His oppos looked at him doubtfully for a long moment. At last Rio said, “Been checking ‘em out, have you, Terry? Thinking of buying one?”
Taff supplied, “And hiring one of us to drive it?”
Terry was shaken. Was his grip on these three slipping? If so, how? Why? He blustered, “Look, all I said was that I don’t reckon a Roller would keep coming back here!”
“Well, there it is,” Rio grunted, pointing to the corner of the next street. And, as Terry swung around, added, “I’m for
home.”
“Me too!”
“Me too!”
And they were gone, leaving Terry to confront the car alone amid the swirling mist.
It did nothing, save purr past him at a walking pace. And duly vanished into mist again.
Yet it left him with a sense of terrible anxiety.
Half the night he lay awake wondering who could have sent it. Obviously its purpose was to frighten him—by now, his universe revolved so totally about himself he could not have envisaged any other possibility.
But why a Roller—? No, that question answered itself, and instantly. Air-conditioned. Sealed against the outer world, its occupants might also be immune to his personal magnetism. (That was the latest of several terms he had found applicable, and the one he preferred, inasmuch as it sounded solid, physical, concrete.)
And behind the dark glass… who? Agents of a tong, summoned via the grapevine by long-suffering Mr. Lee at the Chinese takeaway—or, more likely, by his wife? Or distant relatives of Mr. Lal the newsagent, expert killers who owed some kind of vendetta-style loyalty to his family? Or someone local, furious because he, Terry, unawares, had trespassed on the turf of an adult gang already running a protection racket in the area?
On the whole it was the last possibility that scared him worst. He had only a vague impression of what a tong did to those who offended one of its members, and a longstanding if now rather faint belief, acquired at school, that brown-skinned people such as Indians and Pakistanis and Bangladeshis lacked bottle and were consequently soft. But as to his own kind…
Well, notoriously, in this town they used cut-throat razors, and with skill.
