His father’s desk was much as he remembered it: clear but for the writing mat and a jade fountain pen in its holder. Vellum was in the top centre drawer. In the right drawer—
Lawrence froze. He stared, his face pulsing. His hand trembled as he lifted from the drawer an elegant white cardboard order of service, decorated with gold lining and hand-printed in copperplate. Father’s funeral took place in St Paul’s Cathedral on Wednesday July 28th 2106.
When caught shocked, Lawrence’s fighting instincts locked out all emotion to gather details. The arrival music was “Adagio for Strings” by Samuel Barber. Two hymns were sung: “How Great Thou Art” and “The Day Thou Gavest Lord Is Ended”. There were two eulogies by names Lawrence vaguely remembered from boyhood dinner parties. The music to leave was “Nimrod” from the Enigma Variations.
He sat alone in the silent house, for several minutes too stunned to do anything but listen to creaks and an owl hooting out in the garden. The man he had so despised must have died just after his own despatch to the Night and Fog. That explained why he was never told. A character as conscientious as Donald must have tried to contact him and been left with an impression of utter spitefulness on being ignored.
What would Lawrence have done had he still been free?
After thinking about that, a slow, sliding realisation of waste started to afflict him. A father only lives once and he only dies once. You only get one family. It was all a bit late now—he was Fog on the run. He had nothing. No career. No wife. No family. No identity. In the end, he just shook his head and put the order of service back in the drawer. It was time to be realistic, or try to be. His hands trembled too much for him to write. He had to go for a stroll on the landing to calm down. For family he had one estranged elder brother and that was it. His stepmother did not count as family. He could try to fight on alone through life, or he could do his best to rebuild contact with his one living relation.
The letter he wrote ran to a length that afterwards surprised him, three pages of embarrassingly cramped freehand. It was his first writing in four and a half months—something he pointed out in the letter. He gave a full description of how he had been falsely accused in Oban and his thoughts on why it had happened. He included a brief outline of life at Chatham camp whilst omitting mention of the Value System. That was something he could only describe in person. Accounting for his escape was a problem, since Chatham was on the south shore of the Thames Estuary and the Value System was more than a hundred miles north of there. He emphasized that he was determined to clear his name and would be grateful for help.
This brought him to the decision he could not make: whether to stay in the house or get out of the Central Enclave while the gates were open. It was all a matter of risk. Could Donald hide his brother and hope to keep the secret from a household of two dozen staff for any length of time? It just was not realistic. Lawrence had to get away, back into that bloody cold night.
To seek help from strangers—Sarah-Kelly’s family—was an all-or-nothing strategy. Against that, what were his prospects trying to live as a marginal through the winter? What sort of future was in that life anyway? Answers: minimal and zero. He added an end note he was going out to the Newman barging family at North Kensington basin. After which, he folded the letter and sealed it with wax to keep out the eyes of nosy servants.
Before leaving comfort, Lawrence took advantage of the beautiful en suite bathroom, with its white marble tops and stainless-steel fittings. Once again he had to see that forty-year-old face as he whipped the razor on the strop and began shaving the tell-tale blond stubble. Afterwards, he continued to stare at the mirror, looking through his reflection. He was looking inside himself to see what others would see, the top killer who made a pact with barbarity to gain rank. Only a couple of weeks ago, he had stood in Nightminster’s garden in the Value System and with absolute conviction stated that the surplus had to be prevented to protect the cosmos. All of that certainty had simply evaporated. Where had it ever come from? Had it ever been more than a mindset created by his ambition to reach account-captain first class before his thirtieth birthday? Why else would he have been so sure of something for which he had not the least evidence? The surplus flow was trivial in relation to the immensity of the public drains and the petty domains of the gangsters, let alone the sovereign lands. The tradition of prevention had probably begun out of sadism and been authenticated by the approval of senior sadists until it became operational procedure, perpetuated by victimising lone recruits into conformity. In this way, naïve teenagers got turned into killers. Of course, they came primed from a society that viewed homeless drifters as insects.
Not all recruits became killers. A few killed themselves. Others deserted. Others went mad. Still others transferred out as fast as they could and avoided ‘hard’ units at the cost of a stifled career. There had always been choices. On the day Kalchelik blew an old man to bits with a 20mm rifle, Lawrence could have simply walked out—deserted. He had a good family to return to. He could have sorted his shit, got some A-levels, gone to university and pursued another career. Yes, there had been choices.
A numbness filled his soul. So much for the grand account-captain first class in his finery… He shook his head, struck by how incomprehensible his old values now felt. If asked now, “What motivates you?” he would have answered, “Imagine falling down a bottomless shaft—forever.”
He sat in his father’s study for a while, trying to coax his mood back up, all too aware he could not afford the indulgence of depressive breakdown. The mistake was to sit down and stare at an empty desk. It was the clean logic of action that cured the wounded mind. In the kitchen he gathered cold chicken, ham, bread and water. He vaguely recalled some camping equipment stored in the basement and purloined a waxed cotton sou’wester hat and a canvas knapsack with a couple of water flasks pouched into it. Clothing was a problem. His old clothes were gone from his room. Neither his father nor his brother were his size. The best he could find were some rather tight long-johns and a pullover in the garage probably used by the chauffeur. Whilst chomping a meat pie, he also gathered some tools from the garage: pliers for cutting wires and a knife in a leather sheath. A search for his father’s automatic pistol yielded nothing. He had to make do with a quiver of arrows from brother Donald’s old bedroom cupboard. A watch would have been useful. Despite their prosperity, the Aldingfords did not leave watches lying around.
The first yards from the family’s home were hard paces. The prospect of the great, dark wilderness of everywhere else was crushing. Was it not ridiculous to feel this way? He was twenty-seven years old, a grown man. No, it was not ridiculous to feel this way. People who go out into the world without a place to stop are by definition surplus. He knew that North Kensington basin was his last real hope. It was not that he had no other options; top killer of rats was a career option, just not one he classed as a ‘hope’.
Chapter 18
Would he have attended his father’s funeral had he been free? Would he even have answered his stepmother’s letters? In Oban, he lived inside a shell of his own vanity, contemptuous of the stolid society of a colony town, so proud of his historical theories and provocative choice of girlfriend. His head was stuck too far up his own arse to see the danger. No, he probably would not have attended the funeral. If he was honest with himself, he could not accuse those lying Oban swine of having stolen his father’s death from him.
Lawrence struggled for morale. With enough concentration he could channel his mind into thoughts only of how to break in to North Kensington basin, but he kept slumping into preoccupation with his dismal circumstances. How could he ever rebuild a new life? That is, a decent life with good gold and status fit for Sarah-Kelly? He just could not see it. No matter how hard he tried, he could not see a way out.
He stumbled, apathetic. Once, he barged into someone in the dark and had to apologise and get away rapidly. Then he hit a tree and fell down on the gravel. Everything he
could think of led to the same dead end that he was Fog on the run.
The quickest route to North Kensington basin from Bloomsbury was along a wide boulevard called Euston Road, followed by a right turn into another boulevard called Ladbroke Grove. From there it was a dead straight run up to Ladbroke fort at the Grande Enceinte. Normally Euston Road jostled with glory trucks and armoured cars. This night, not a vehicle was to be heard. The only traffic was of servants fleeing the Central Enclave back to the safety of their asylum homes. In the darkness, the weight of flow could only be guessed by listening, although as he approached the junction with Ladbroke Grove a couple of lights created a little scene with figures drifting through it like motes. Getting closer, he heard a Stirling generator chugging and smelled its wood smoke. Figures laboured at beating two posts into the gravel. They hung out a National Party flag about the size of a double bed and began hailing into the darkness. Some of the flow around Lawrence peeled off to take a look. Soon a crowd had gathered. Lawrence hesitated. He was wary of the black-suited Party officials; they were apt to start demanding passports. A dirty tramp armed with a bow and arrows was bound to attract their notice. These black suits were shouting about a Party bulletin whilst passing out handfuls of printed sheets to the crowd. On hearing mention of an arrest list, he hastened away from the light.
Nothing he could do would change whether he was on that arrest list or not. However, the sight of Party officials sprang fears of passport checks in Ladbroke fort and the closing of the turnpike toll. To his vast relief, the customs was a deserted cave and the turnpike still open. He passed outside the Grande Enceinte as a free man.
As he walked the last stretch up the turnpike, the reality of the arrest list gnawed this high mood to tatters of pessimism. Suppose Sarah-Kelly asked him directly whether he had committed atrocities? What on earth would he say? He could not lie into her eyes any more than he could admit the truth. It would be impossible to make her understand the pressure to conform inside the closed society of a barge crew. Equally, it would be useless to ask her forgiveness.
He could only hope she never asked.
*
The turnpike north of Ladbroke fort ascended a mild grade, along the left side of which ran a wall of earth and brick about ten feet high. It was topped by a dense thatch of gorse, wild roses and other natural thorny deterrents. This was the frontier of North Kensington basin. In itself, it was not an especially difficult obstacle for a trained, strong young man like Lawrence to overcome. It was what lay beyond that was dangerous. From comments made by Sarah-Kelly, he knew the communal areas of the basin were patrolled by volunteers from the barging families working in a shift system. To minimise the risk, he needed to get as close as he could to the Newman business before going over the frontier.
Long ago in that previous world of freedom in Oban, Sarah-Kelly had sketched him a map of the location of her family home, just as he had provided her one showing the location of his father’s house within Bloomsbury district. That was in the last days, when he had suspected some kind of backlash was coming—he was thinking in terms of an abrupt transfer—in which respect he was correct, if rather optimistic concerning the conditions. Sarah-Kelly’s map remained clear enough in memory. The Newman business lay adjacent the south-west corner—virtually opposite where he currently was. To reach the section of frontier adjacent the business, he would have to make his way along the Strip, the open area that had been gleaned to provide building materials for the Grande Enceinte. The Strip ran along the back of North Kensington basin, providing a separation of about a quarter mile from the Grande Enceinte.
It was a dangerous place in darkness. The earth vanished—only a crazy grab at a branch spared him a broken leg (or worse) falling into the maw of a cellar hidden by shadows. He hit his shin and sat muttering curses. Cold sweat oozed as he pondered upon how doomed he would have been at the bottom of that hole with a broken leg. Caution slowed him further after that.
About a hundred yards from the south-west corner of the basin frontier, he took off the bow, quiver and knapsack. He hid the bow and quiver in a thicket and used the knapsack as a seat. The risk now was of falling asleep and waking up in daylight. What alarmed him was jolting awake without having any recollection of being drowsy, to see the moon had leaped hours across the sky. The piercing cold kept him awake in the end. He shivered uncontrollably, standing and walking up and down a beat of grass, gloved hands stuffed under his armpits. It was impatience rather than the glow of dawn that drove him to get started.
The frontier wall had been built by the apathetic hands of Night and Fog gangs, the bricks laid without mortar to form two parallel walls about eight feet apart at the top, gradually widening together towards the base rather like two dams laid back-to-back. The trench thus formed between them was filled with rubble and earth. That was the usual way these frontier walls were built. It was not especially difficult to ascend the rough, slightly canted brick face, the really obnoxious deterrence was the turmoil of thorns a couple of yards thick on top.
The only protection he could devise for his eyes was the sling shot. He bound it about his head. He had no shield for his face. He took off the knapsack and tied it to the laces of his left boot. Getting through the prickly thatch atop the wall meant patient feeling and cutting with the pliers, crawling in, feeling and cutting some more, wincing at gorse swipes across the neck and thorns tearing down his cheeks. The heavy Value System gloves were fortunately excellent for gripping and pushing aside the tangle. It was impossible to move in silence with scores of thorns scraping the canvas overalls at any one time. All he could do was shift a bit, pause, shift a bit more, wait for a gust and move. He curved to the left so that when he reached the inside edge he was almost side-on and could lower his legs to drop into grass. After removing the sling shot and putting the knapsack back on, he crouched, gathering the scene. It was getting light. A thick grey screen of first dawn was growing and he could hear work had already started; boots tramped about, someone grumbled and yelled for Stephen you dickhead. A few yards off, a pale roadway ran parallel with the frontier. On the far side of it were the backs of warehouses. The Newmans owned one of the larger businesses of the basin. It occupied the south-west corner position, a favoured location as the corner had been dug out to form a kind of private harbour for them.
Lawrence moved on all fours, pausing to look about and listen. He noticed there were alleys running between the businesses, presumably to provide access around all sides of the properties as well as to separate rivals. He kept in the shadow of the frontier wall, soon finding he was approaching the south-west corner of the frontier where the wall cut north at a right angle. The business now to his right must be the Newman’s. It presented a warehouse backside about two storeys high. Following the road around the corner offered him an alley between the warehouses towards the basin itself. The light by this time was too clear to hide in—any patrol could not fail to see him. He stood up and walked openly across the road and waded along a vague path in the overgrown alley to the far end. He could now hear the slapping of waves against quays.
The far end of the alley gave a wide-open view up the length of the basin itself. The expanse of water was so large that Lawrence would have described it as a lake. The breeze chased fans of chop away into the distance and toyed with trees on islands out towards the middle. It would appear that all the businesses had electric lighting, for the basin was entirely surrounded by a band of speckled yellow stars. Under different circumstances, it would have been a charming sight.
Looking sharply sideways towards what must be the Newman’s business, he was startled to see a large, sleek flying boat moored just outside the mouth of their private harbour. It was without question the same flying boat he had watched land the previous afternoon. At ground level, it seemed clumsier and chunkier than it had airborne, much as a seagull loses its grace when it folds its wings. It was moored with its nose a few yards from a broad wooden bridge that enabled pe
ople to walk across the mouth of the Newman’s private harbour. Within their harbour were perhaps half a dozen moored barges.
Lawrence remained crouched, mulling over his position. He could see figures moving about in the Newman’s yard, loading crates into one of the barges. He tapped his teeth, thinking as he observed. A loaded barge meant ultramarines would be reporting with a hauling team.
The Newman’s yard was enclosed by brick warehouses with slate roofs—they looked substantial compared to the tarred wooden sheds of the industrial asylums. On the far side of the Newman’s harbour was a large house. This was a mix of brick and wooden clinker, as if it had been added to as the family grew with the business. The entire business property was secured by a tall fence of iron bars topped by stainless steel barbed wire. That was high quality stuff, there was money in this place, at least by slummy standards.
It was now so light that he felt conspicuous crouched at the end of the alley. He stood up and walked along the quay to the gate of the Newman’s compound. By this time an enormous mastiff in the yard had spotted him and was glaring, its chain tinkling. This drew the attention of the men loading the barge. They glared at him too.
He held up both hands in a friendly gesture and waved, but did not call out. A public-school accent would not be normal here. One of the men began striding over. Lawrence knew this must be Bartram from Sarah-Kelly’s description of her eldest brother: “Looks just like a walking badger, except he’s not that pretty”. His gait was quick on his stumpy badger’s legs, whilst his long, powerful arms swung more slowly. He had a noticeable paunch and a double-chin. He took a quick drag at a rolled cigarette as he came up to the gate, his eyes summing Lawrence from boots to scratched face .
Sovereigns of the Collapse Book 2 Page 22
