When Slocock stopped coughing he said, “The brass told you that? Jesus! Look, lady, I’m being sent because I’m not a good soldier. I’m only good at one thing and that’s damaging people. Trouble is, once I start I find it hard to stop, and the army finds that kind of embarrassing, especially over here. I’m a liability to them. They’re happy to get rid of me.” He drank the rest of his scotch.
“You’re going to make yourself drunk,” said Kimberley accusingly.
“Lady, I hoped to be smashed out of my brain by the time I have to see those videos they’re going to show us. I advise you to be the same.”
4
Barry Wilson was furious.
It had been several hours since he’d been bundled into the helicopter but still no one had explained to him the reason behind his compulsory visit to Belfast. Of course he could only take their word for it that he was in Belfast. It had still been dark when they touched down and all he’d seen were a few drab, military-looking buildings around the landing area.
Now he was sitting alone in an almost bare room that smelled strongly of disinfectant. There were a few hard-backed chairs scattered around, one of which he was sitting on, and a table covered in a green felt cloth. Behind it there was a blackboard and a large map of the British Isles. It was like being in a seedy school room.
Wilson jumped as the door opened behind him. He looked round and saw two officers enter the room. One was a little older than him, probably 36 or 37, the other in late middle age. He was relieved to see they were just carrying clipboards and didn’t appear to be armed.
“Hello Mr. Wilson,” said the older one. “Sorry to keep you waiting but you can imagine how things are here at the moment.” They sat down at the table and stared at him. There was curiosity and expectancy in their gaze, and also a touch of desperation. Wilson saw that the younger man, who sat very stiffly, looked particularly anxious. He also had a tic in his right cheek.
Wilson said, “It’s Doctor, not Mister. And no, I can’t imagine how things are here at the moment. All I know is that I was kidnapped at gunpoint. My house was broken into and is probably still open to looters, children and cats pissing over the family heirlooms. I want an apology, an explanation, compensation and a quick trip home. Not necessarily in that order.”
The older officer sighed. Then, “First let us introduce ourselves. My name is Major Peterson. This is Captain O’Connell.” The thin-featured younger officer gave Wilson a curt nod. The Major continued, “I understand from Lieutenant Smythe-Robertson that you claim you are unaware of recent events?” He obviously found this difficult to believe.
“That’s right, and I’m still unaware of recent events, whatever they may be. I kept asking your Lieutenant Smith what the hell was going on but he didn’t tell me anything apart from a bad-taste joke about London.”
O’Connell leaned forward, his pale, sharp face looking even more haggard than earlier. “You really don’t know what’s going on over there?”
Wilson shook his head with annoyance. “For the hundredth time, no I don’t.”
“What in God’s name have you been doing for the past two weeks?” demanded Peterson.
“I’ve been alone in my cottage writing. As you must know I’m a writer. I write the Flannery books.” He paused very briefly for the signs of recognition every writer hopes for but very rarely receives. Here he got none at all. “Flannery is an Irish private detective,” he explained sulkily.
“For two weeks!” It sounded to Wilson as though the Major’s astonishment was more to do with the length of time that anyone in his right mind would spend writing than at the self-imposed solitude.
“It actually takes a little longer than that to write a book,” said Wilson. “I was racing to finish it off after a visit from my children. I can’t do any work at all when they’re around. I need total isolation and no interruptions. It’s the way I work—in concentrated bursts.”
“No newspapers? No television?” asked Peterson.
“What about phone calls? Visits from your neighbors?”
“I took the phone off the hook and my neighbors and I don’t speak to each other as a rule.”
“Extraordinary,” murmured Peterson.
“And now can you tell me what all the panic’s about? I presume it’s not World War III, otherwise we’d all be glowing in the dark by now.”
“No, it’s not World War III, Dr. Wilson,” said Peterson. “But before I explain there are some questions I must ask you.” He glanced at his clipboard. “You are married to Dr. Jane Wilson, are you not?”
Wilson was taken aback by the introduction of his estranged wife into this bizarre conversation. “Yes,” he said. “Why?”
Peterson ignored his question. “And she was a mycologist working at the Institute of Tropical Biology in London?”
Wilson didn’t care for his use of the word “was.” He began to get a queasy sensation in the pit of his stomach. “That officer was joking, wasn’t he? When he said that London no longer existed?”
Peterson and O’Connell exchanged a look. The younger officer’s face was now completely white. Wilson’s anxiety increased. Something had happened in London. Something horrendous. But if it wasn’t a nuclear war what was it? Some sort of nuclear accident? Or had we dropped one of our own H-Bombs on it by mistake? It was probably the Americans’ fault—they were always having accidents with their bloody bombs and missiles, dropping them all over the place. “Broken Arrows” they called them.
“Look, you’ve got to tell me!” he demanded. “My children are in London.”
Peterson held up a hand. “The officer was exaggerating. London still exists. It’s just that—well, it’s been changed.”
O’Connell suddenly bent forward and put his hands over his mouth. His shoulders began to shake and he made a dry retching sound. Wilson didn’t know if he was crying or about to throw up.
Major Peterson regarded O’Connell with a pained expression. “Perhaps you should leave, Captain. I can handle this.”
With a visible effort O’Connell straightened and regained his composure. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and took a deep breath. “I’m fine, sir. Really. I’ll be all right.”
Peterson turned back to Wilson. “About your wife,” he began.
Wilson cut him short. “Why the hell do you keep going on about Jane? One moment we’re talking about some disaster that’s befallen London and the next you’re back asking questions about my wife! What’s she got to do with any of this?”
“Believe me, Dr. Wilson,” said Peterson, “she has a lot to do with it. Now please let me continue with my questions. I assure you they are all relevant to the situation which I will explain to you shortly.”
Wilson sighed impatiently. It was like something out of Kafka. “Go on,” he said.
“Your wife is regarded as one of the top experts in the field of mycology, correct?”
“Yes. Whenever and wherever in the world people get together to discuss fungi my wife’s name is invariably mentioned in tones of awe. What of it?”
“And you’re a mycologist too, I understand?”
“I used to be,” Wilson corrected him. “I decided I’d made what is called a career error. I gave it all up to become a writer. Besides, one scientific genius in the family is enough.” He couldn’t keep the trace of bitterness out of his voice.
“But you kept in touch with what your wife was doing?” asked Peterson. “In her research, I mean.”
Wilson nodded. “Couldn’t avoid it. All she ever talks about.”
“And what was she doing?”
“Trying to breed a new species of mushroom. Big mushrooms that would grow quickly and be about ten times richer in protein than the ordinary sort. She has visions of solving the world food shortage with the things. Never thinks small, my wife.”
“Do you know the exact method she was using to create these big mushrooms?” asked O’Connell
