Sovereigns of the Collapse Book 1
Page 21
“They’re faithful servants.”
“How can you live like this?”
“Would you rather my twenty-five staff starved to death on the public drains?”
“Banner said when the Party came to power, common folk would have proper jobs in factories, building great machines to feed society. He said there’d be a national bank and legal tender and all the frontiers would get flattened and the whole world would come back to life. Cities would light up brighter than the Milky Way. Common folk would have cars again and there would be free hospitals and everyone would have enough to eat. Where do you really stand?”
“The National Party was too extreme,” Donald said. “It simply goaded a response from the corresponding extreme in the glory trusts. There has to be a middle-ground of compromise.”
Sarah-Kelly eyed him for a while. He could not tell whether she was judging him, or so absorbed by some inner conflict as to appear in a trance.
“You’ll find a new job once things settle down,” he said. “Besides, Lawrence will be back with us soon.”
Strangely, the mention of Lawrence did not cheer her up. There was something else on her mind.
“I want you to tell me about the Atrocity Commission,” he said.
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“It’s important—to me.”
She shook her head.
“The things I heard… I can’t believe even beasts would do such things.”
After a little more coaxing, he got her to talk about the leading basic who was giving evidence when the glories attacked.
“He was garrisoned on a land bordering some drain that goes up to Birmingham. It’s an ancient drain built thousands of years ago by the Romans.”
Donald pulled out an old atlas from the Public Era and laid it across their thighs. He supposed she meant one of the blue lines, the motorways. Sarah-Kelly tapped the page.
“Stalbans. He said a name like that.”
“Saint Albans?”
“That was it! It’s a Guards to the People fortress, built from that old town. He also mentioned Watling Drain. Do you think that’s it?”
There was a Watling Street marked on the map in red. It scored straight across the country, quite distinct from the weaving about of the blue lines. Sarah-Kelly shrugged.
“I don’t suppose it matters very much,” she said. “His section was run by a grade lieutenant who was an absolute tyrant. He fogged people just for having the wrong face. He had a party piece, as he called it. There’s a bit of this Watling Drain where a bridge has gone and the flow has to go down into a ravine where it’s basically just a sodden path through the woods. The section would ambush clots of surplus there. They would lie in wait and blast them with repellent spray—that’s sawn-off shotguns. There’d be kids crying over mothers with brains hanging out… and they’d shoot the kids like they were dogs. Some of the men would race about shooting kids in a kind of frenzy. That’s what he said.”
She trailed off, still stunned by this callousness.
“He said—this leading basic—he said he didn’t want to do it, but you get swept along because everyone else is at it and everyone says they’re just vermin anyway—the surplus. The grade lieutenant fogged anyone who was squeamish. Afterwards, they searched the baggage and split the pickings. One time he got three gold coins from a nation state called Tunisia that were more than a century old. He showed them to us just before you got there.”
Donald nudged her to tell more. There was a cost-centre-lieutenant who liked nothing better than to snatch surplus off the drains and toss them to hungry pigs. He would lean over the wall of the pen, his eyes maniacal, laughing at the screams of the hapless pig fodder. There was a countryman who would wait on a hill overlooking the Great West Drain near the garrison town of Reading. From there, he enjoyed a little sport with his collection of vintage rifles. He didn’t do it too often, or the surplus got wary. The witness complained to his officer about this enthusiasm and for his pains got nine months’ Fog carrying water before resuming his employment one rank down on another land.
“How did the Commission check these tales? They could be just made up,” Donald said.
“The Commission took evidence on a standard form. Any officer named was filed in a central record some place where scores of researchers tried to put it all together to see if patterns emerged against particular people. The system was thorough—at least, it looked thorough to me.”
“There are thousands of glory officers,” Donald said. “In any large human group there will be some callous bastards.”
“It’s not a few, I can tell you that. Banner told me this morning the teams have gathered files on more than eight hundred officers and former officers. This is huge, Donald. That’s why those thugs killed the Party.”
Donald hunched forward, scraping one thumbnail up and down the other. Things were stirring in his mind, things he had just not thought deeply about at the time. For instance, Team Lieutenant Farkas, laughing as the brass-muncher blasted horsemen to twitching pulp—yet Farkas was supposedly one of the good guys! Then there was Account-Captain Turner, Lawrence’s former boss, with his smarmy knowingness. He had to force himself to face the next question. Still looking at his hands, he asked:
“Did you ever get barge crews before the commission?”
She shuddered visibly.
“Oh God, those stories were the worst, the most graphic. The witnesses took pains to be sure we understood just how foul it was. The one that sticks in mind was a sergeant. He was one of the most senior troopers we ever got in front of the Commission. Not one officer ever came to us. Not one.
“Ten years ago, this sergeant was a probationary basic just out of boot camp. He was chuffed to bits when he got posted to the Portsmouth Flotilla of General Wardian. Everyone told him the barges were the fast track up the ladder. On his first patrol, they were out in the English Channel and they came on this group of three rafts in a pitiful state, I mean, the people were standing with the waves washing through their legs. He thought it was a mercy mission, seeing as he had seen surplus brought ashore by other barges. The captain sat him in the turret of one of those awful quad machine guns, he called it an ‘oily-doyly’. Other folk call them brass-munchers or whispering jimmies. They drifted towards the raft, with the surplus starting to shout and beg to be taken in. The captain ordered nets thrown over the side. Then the captain turned to him and said, ‘Open fire’. He did nothing. He thought he was hearing things. Then the captain said, if he didn’t open fire, they’d throw him overboard. The crew crowded around the turret, threatening and cursing him. So, he fired. Of course, the other two rafts saw what happened and some of them jumped into the sea and swam in mad panic, others who couldn’t swim begged and cried for mercy as the barge came their way. The captain told another guy to get in the turret to wipe them out. Then a sharp-shooter went up the mast to pick off any left swimming, if the sharks hadn’t got them. Seemingly sharks circle around these rafts all the time, because of dead bodies and them having to do the toilet in the sea. Sometimes the sharks leap up and drag surplus off. This sergeant said he couldn’t sleep. The other crew kept threatening to chuck him overboard in the night. They thought he was gutless. The captain said if he told a soul, he would be charged with murder and hanged. Troopers do get hanged. So, he kept his trap shut.”
Donald jumped up, pressing his palms together, meandering about the study, afflicted by the illness of an unbearable consternation. Account-Captain Turner had been emphatic about Lawrence’s performance.
He was a most useful officer for an organisation such as ours. Then again, times change; his sort of dedication is going out of fashion.
Such praise could mean almost anything. It all depended on the context.
“Did Lawrence ever talk to you about preventing surplus?”
“What?” Sarah-Kelly frowned. “No, of course not. Oban is too far north for flow. All those barg
es with the brass-munchers were to scare locals off poaching in Loch Sunart. Everyone knew that.”
Donald stared at the back of her head, wondering how convinced she really was.
Chapter 17
Sunday drifted into dusk. Donald and Sarah-Kelly retreated to the summer house to escape Butler Campbell and the chambermaids. It was damp, cold and smelled of mice. With a little kindling and some coal left over from September, they got the fire going. Steam rose from the couch. Sarah-Kelly tucked up her feet and relaxed against Donald, resting her head on his shoulder. His mind was too disrupted for him to settle down and savour this affection.
They stirred at the crunch of feet approaching on the gravel path. A little figure leaned into view, shyly curious at what might lurk behind the dark panes of the summer house. It was his eldest daughter, Marcia, aged nine. He had not seen her for weeks. A rush of joy carried away all his worries. He gave Sarah-Kelly a nudge.
“Look who it is.”
“Is that your daughter? Aww… isn’t she lovely.” She jumped up and pulled open the door, stooping and clasping her hands on her knees. “Hello sweetie. I’m Sarah-Kelly.”
“I’m Marcia,” she grinned and ran forward. Donald stood up, instantly aware that Sarah-Kelly and he were still dressed as slummies. Sarah-Kelly had no other clothing. Nothing in Lavinia’s wardrobe would have fitted her ample figure, even supposing any of it would have appealed. She had borrowed fresh underwear from Donald.
He lifted Marcia and sat her on his forearm. He hugged her long and close and kissed her on the forehead and she kissed him on the cheek.
“Hello Daddy.”
“You’re very beautifully dressed. Are you going to a party?”
“Mm-hmm. I’m playing with Suzi.” She frowned. “You forgot.”
“What’s the matter?” whispered Sarah-Kelly.
“He forgot,” said Marcia. She was staring at Sarah-Kelly with a blatant scepticism. She had now caught on to the accent—that is, people one spoke at, rather than with.
“Marcia is playing a duet with Suzannah Krossington at TK’s Advent Dinner tonight,” Donald said, dully. He was sinking in a mire of shame. Well, he had been shot at and fled for his life in the last twenty-four hours. Not that Marcia would ever know.
Another pair of little feet scampered down the gravel. It was Cynthia, aged eight. She ran forward until she saw Sarah-Kelly, whereupon she stopped dead, confused by the sight of a woman wearing denim trousers. Not even servants presented themselves like that, like a factory girl.
“Is she the new gardener?”
“Is your mother here?” Donald asked.
“Mm-hmmm. She looks absolutely gorgeous.”
Marcia must have heard the words from someone else. Donald wondered who. Like an ice guillotine, Lavinia’s voice cut through the conifers.
“Donald! Are you there? Campbell said you were—”
Lavinia strutted into view, dainty on the gravel in her ballroom shoes, which lifted her as tall as Donald. She wore a fox fur coat and carried a neat black handbag with a gold clasp. She brought the prinkage of social affectation: perfume, lip stick, hair lifted in elaborate chignons, hands soft as a child’s, nails manicured. She suited the world of gleaming teeth and harmless prattle.
Sarah-Kelly whispered under her breath: “Oh my God, she’s really beautiful.”
Lavinia’s eyes lingered on Sarah-Kelly, slowly falling to The Captain’s Best boots, her expression sagging through disbelief, to disappointment, to disgust.
“Lavinia!” It was the last voice Donald wanted to hear on this earth, the coarse bawling of Marcus-John Krossington, TK’s bigoted elder brother. “Lavinia! What are you… Call this patch a garden? I wouldn’t let an old nag shit in here.”
Marcus-John strode into view. He was taller than TK, at five foot nine, a fit man of about sixty with a face weathered from years of ocean cruising on his yacht. He was often mistaken for a drunk because of his complexion and harsh voice. He wore riding boots and breeches and a leather bomber jacket. Donald noted the riding crop. For a few seconds, Marcus-John was focused on Lavinia, obviously baffled to find her standing outside.
“What’s up? You look like the footman just gave your fanny a grope…” He swung around, following her gaze, jolting in shock at the sight of Sarah-Kelly in boots and trousers. On seeing Donald, his face registered blank disbelief.
Lavinia raised her eyes to give Donald one last glare and then stalked away. The ice-cutter voice spoke:
“Follow me, both of you.”
Donald let Marcia down to the floor, stroking her hair and he drew Cynthia to him and kissed her on the nose, so that she giggled.
“Now you two go with your mother.”
“But—”
“Hurry. I’ll be along later. I won’t miss you play, I promise.”
They scurried away out of sight past Marcus-John. He was still in a state of bemusement.
“You’re a strange case, Aldingford,” he said. “But I’m grateful you proved me right and my brother wrong. For that, I can only thank you.”
He strolled away up the garden, whistling and swiping at the bushes with his riding crop.
“I’ll have to go,” Donald said. The thought of the coming evening was sickening. Marcia and Cynthia could not be prevented, nor blamed, from blurting news of the strange factory girl with their father. Lavinia could not be prevented, nor blamed, from taking the only possible action—divorce. It was the end of the life he had known. Strangely—stupidly—he did not really care.
“I’ll set you up in the Annex. You won’t have to face the dreaded Mr Campbell.” He slipped his arms around her waist and pressed her close, laying his cheek against the top of her head.
*
Okeke and Donald made a strange journey south from Bloomsbury to Mayfair. The streets were abnormally crowded with what appeared to be off-duty servants, generally heading west. The limousine eased into the Marble Arch gates at the frontier of Mayfair district to find them abandoned. There was not a glory trooper in sight. As the district containing most of the sovereigns’ town palaces, Mayfair (along with Westminster) bore the highest security rating in the Central Enclave.
Donald slid the Colt inside his evening jacket and got out. The air was so cold and still that his breath hung sparkling in the arc lights. The steady buzz of the lights was the only sound. The guard house was deserted. Registers of entries and exits, stamps, even blank visas, lay about on the counters. The last record stated four-thirty the previous afternoon—interestingly, about the same time as the attack on Bloomsbury College. It would appear the gates had been open for more than twenty-four hours and the glory trusts had done nothing about it.
They continued down Park Lane to Hyde Park Corner. This stretch was deserted. They found Piccadilly empty all the way through to Pall Mall, the only lights being from oil lanterns hung over the arched gates of the sovereign mansions. Normally this stretch would be a jam of limousines on Advent Night.
“I do get the impression,” Donald said, “the rest of town knows something we do not.”
At the gates of Wilson House they were stopped by a wall of Krossington marines, who yelled to dowse the headlights. Okeke did so and held his palms up in view. An officer with a scarlet band on his cap rapped on Donald’s window.
“What is your business, sir?”
“I am here for the Advent Dinner.”
“It was cancelled this afternoon, sir. Please return home.”
Donald hesitated. It was an immense relief. No hours of painful social charade.
“Is my wife here? Her Decency Lavinia of Laxbury.”
“No sir.”
Donald pondered. He had no reason to see TK now. If anything, it might be dangerous to get into discussion about the massacre of the National Party. There was always the risk of blurting out something he could only have known from having been there.
“Please inform His Decency that I cal
led. There is no need for me to take up his time. By the way, I assume you’re aware the gates into Bloomsbury are wide open and unguarded?”
“We are well aware of that, sir. The situation is rather precarious. I strongly advise you to stay at home all day tomorrow.”
“Thank you. Good night.”
Okeke clunked the limousine into reverse and swung the long vehicle around to return home.
*
A few minutes later, a footman hastened up through Wilson House with a message for His Decency, who was ensconced with some cronies in his study at the top of the West Tower. The door was answered by a man the footman loathed, for he was scared by the sight of him. It was Wingfield, TK’s bodyguard.
“What?”
“Message for His Decency, Mr Wingfield.”
“Thanks. Be gone.”
Wingfield took the silver platter and shut the door.
“What is it?” TK said in a gruff voice. Wingfield proffered the tray and TK tore open the envelope. What he read caused his face to crease up with disbelief.
“Donald Aldingford just called. He was unaware the Advent Dinner was cancelled.” TK was completely at a loss. “How could he not know? Can you check whether his butler received the message?”
“I’ll shake ‘em up, Your Decency,” Wingfield said, parodying a quick march out the door.
TK continued his conference with the butler and the marine captain of the Wilson House garrison. They were updating their master on progress to evacuate Wilson House. A convoy of armoured cars was still being loaded with artworks and bullion. It would be ready to depart south for the Lands of Krossington in about forty minutes.
Wingfield returned with the news Donald’s butler had certainly been informed. The head of messengers had the message receipt signed by Butler Campbell.
“So, Butler Campbell has ceased communication with his own master?” TK said. He eyed Wingfield.
“Donald’s household has probably fled to the asylums.”