The general had set up camp in a cavernous, empty ballroom on the first floor. His desk sat in front of double doors that led out to a balcony. The doors stood open, and white gauze curtains billowed into the room, bringing the scents of jasmine and orange blossom from the gardens below. Beside the desk was a huge flatscreen telly on a big stand, hooked up to some sort of computer equipment with wires snaking out the back of it; they ran outside through the balcony doors, presumably to a generator.
He was about 50, at a guess. His black skin was lined and weathered, and his close cut hair almost entirely grey. Barrel-chested and broad shouldered he gave an impression of contained physical power, and his voice reflected that. He was exactly what I would have expected an American general to be; all he needed was to start chomping on a cigar and the picture would be complete.
I shuddered as I imagined that weighty frame leaning into me, pushing me down on to a sharp wooden stake.
He gestured to a metal and canvas chair on my side of the desk, and I sat down.
'Dismissed,' he said. My escort saluted crisply, turned on his heels with a squeak of rubber, and stomped away. The tall doors, made of elaborately carved dark wood, slowly swung shut behind him. We were alone.
General Blythe regarded me curiously and I could see the muscles in his jaw clenching and unclenching as he did so. I met his gaze and held it. Not too defiant, but trying to seem confident. I'd looked into the eyes of madmen before. There's a feral quality they have which, once seen, is impossible to forget. I searched the general's eyes for signs of madness.
He narrowed his eyes and smiled.
'Yes, I think I believe you, son,' he said.
'I'm not your son.'
'Well, we'll come to that in a minute. I believe your story, though. That you flew here from the UK looking for your dad. Gutsy thing to do.'
'Didn't have a choice.'
'We always have a choice, son. You could have left him behind, grown up on your own, become your own man.'
'Is that what you did?'
He laughed. 'I'm asking the questions.' There was a flash of warning in his eyes that hinted at all sorts of unpleasantness. 'Drink?'
He reached across the desk and poured me a beaker of water from a tall glass jug that was frosted with condensation. I took it and swallowed it at once.
'Thank you,' I gasped, wanting more but not willing to ask.
'You're welcome. So what's it like in Britain now?'
'Chaos, what else?'
He considered this and then said: 'But you've got the arms, right? I mean to say, when our British allies pulled out of Iraq they had a plan to restore law and order. Must have started to work by now.'
'Not in my part of the country.'
'Fancy that. And what part of the country would that be?'
I don't know why I lied, it was just instinct I suppose. But I didn't want to tell this guy a single true thing.
'East Anglia. Ipswich.'
He nodded. I couldn't decide which was odder: his interest in British internal affairs, or the fact that he'd heard of Ipswich.
'And that's where you flew from?'
'Yes.'
'Hell of a thing, kid your age. But you've got plenty of scars, I can see that. Fresh too. You ever killed anybody, son?'
'If you were listening to my conversation with my dad, then you already know the answer to that question.'
He nodded, conceding the point.
'You knew I was listening from the start, didn't you?' he said with a smile.
'No.'
'Liar. Otherwise you'd have told your old man about meeting up with his buddies.'
'I don't know what you're talking about.'
The playful smile vanished from his face and he became impassive, his eyes dead and cold.
'Let me put you straight on a few things,' he said. 'Prisoners have rights. Many checks and balances exist to ensure those rights are protected. You are not a prisoner because you don't exist. Ain't nobody looking out for you. I could kill you now with my bare hands and nobody but your daddy would give a damn.'
'You forgot to say 'in this place, I am the law!''
'It goes without saying.'
'Why?'
He seemed surprised by the question. 'Excuse me?'
'Why? To what end? For what purpose?'
'There has to be law, son. Chain of command is the only way I know of running anything, and this place needs running.'
'But why?' I pressed him. 'I mean, shouldn't you be back in the US, shooting looters on Capitol Hill or something? Why are you here?'
'Capitol Hill ain't there anymore. Nuked.'
'Okay, so New York, LA, Boston, Buttfuck Idaho, I dunno. Since The Cull the world's been full of tinpot dictators throwing their weight around. I've met a couple of them. You're not like that. I'm looking you in the eye and you're not insane, and you don't strike me as power crazy. So why are you still here?'
'I got my orders.'
'From whom? Who can possibly…'
I didn't get any further because this huge granite man sitting opposite me suddenly moved faster than I've ever seen anybody move in my life, pulling a gun out of nowhere and firing a round over my head so close it ruffled my hair.
'Next one goes between your eyes. Understand?'
Fuck, yeah.
'I have no beef with you, boy. Your daddy's a dead man, but if you tell me what I want to know you can still walk out of here. Hell, I'll give you a lift back to Ipswich myself. But if you don't answer my questions now, while I'm still of a mind to be civil, I'll start asking a lot less nicely. Clear?'
'Crystal.'
I gritted my teeth. This was my last chance to back out of Tariq's plan. If I said the wrong thing now, I was dead.
'Good. Question one, and make sure I like your answer: two of my men were shot and killed yesterday. Before they were shot they radioed that they had captured a British deserter. Was that you?'
'No,' I replied. 'It was Captain Britain.'
He didn't like that answer.
I hate bullies.
They're worse than madmen, psychopaths, dictators or power mad religious cultists; at least they all have either an excuse or an objective. Bullies are just cruel to make themselves feel cool.
I was bullied when I started school. Once.
I was six years old and had only just started at St Mark's prep. The bully in question, Jasper Jason, was a year older than me. He was a snotty-nosed prick with a little coterie of fawning acolytes who laughed at his cruelty. They tortured cats, that sort of thing.
Anyway, one day, who knows why, he decided that I was going to be his victim. He came over to me in the playground, grabbed my Gameboy and started taunting me with it, threatening to break it, promising to make me cry and so on.
I punched him as hard as I could and broke his nose.
