“What secrets?”
“I’ll just say this: keep your eyes and ears open for the Atrocity Commission.”
Donald paused in thinking back to meeting Sarah-Kelly. She had been dismissive of the Atrocity Commission.
“Why should I bother with it?”
“I won’t say more. Sorry. If you’re interested, you should go down to Fulham Road this Saturday. There’s a big rally for the National Party to celebrate its new headquarters out at Brent Cross. All sorts of folk will be there. Mingle with the crowd and keep your ears open, I think you’ll be impressed by what you pick up.”
*
The Fulham Road was a winding ravine lined by dormitory blocks for servants and tradesmen, with countless gloomy lanes leading off into warrens of workshops and storage yards and doubtless much else better not identified. Donald kept to the main road, knowing he would get lost and look suspicious exploring the ‘back country’. Even on the main road, the air felt chilly and smelled of drains, septic pits and fat lamps. Breeze and sunshine passed clean over this gully, except possibly in mid-summer. Whenever he stopped, mangy cats slunk about his boots. They hung about every alley, glowering at the human world that created their habitat. Ahead, the road widened into an oblong plaza, which was mobbed like a Christmas festival. Public speakers were everywhere, yelling every strain of vituperation against the sovereign class, cursing the ‘murdering dogs’. They led chants of Solidarity! Unity! Nation!. Once upon a time, this demonstration would have brought truckloads of glory troopers, loud speakers screaming and batons whacking. In fact, glory troopers were already here—they were in the crowds cheering with everyone else. The orange and green badge shone from almost every chest.
Donald bought a badge and a newsletter called Freedom’s Dawning, in which he read that the Elephant and Castle industrial asylum had pledged support for the National Party after receiving artillery shells from Naclaski batteries of the Grande Enceinte. Donald shook his head, amazed by the stupidity of the glory trusts. They were driving the asylums into the fold of the National Party.
Further down the page was a ‘call for evidence’ by the Atrocity Commission of the National Party. Its teams were gathering evidence of criminal actions by glory officers. All right-thinking, morally oriented glory troops were urged to bear witness, even concerning incidents years ago. Personal confessions would be received with utmost sympathy.
What shocked him was the brazenness. The National Party head office at Bloomsbury College was virtually within sight of the great General Wardian depot at Euston, while the Guards to the People depot at King’s Cross was barely a mile distant. He very much doubted students or staff of Bloomsbury College had permission to bear arms. As a senior citizen of the Central Enclave, Donald did have that right, but his kind would not normally have dealings with Bloomsbury College. Sarah-Kelly was in that top floor office right now, or at least, she had said she would be when they parted at ZEEBRI. There was one way in and one way out. It was a trap.
Without further thought, he quick-marched north, risking side lanes to short-cut, zig-zagging amongst the tight-set blocks of workers’ apartments towards the avenues of Brompton and the showrooms and boutiques of Knightsbridge.
His departure proved well-timed. Just as he left, glory trucks roared in, horns blearing, harsh mouths bawling “Smash the trash!”, “Waste ‘em lads!”, the crash of hob-nails, the deep, outraged howl of the crowd, gunfire. He quickened his pace.
The distance from Fulham to Bloomsbury College was barely four miles, yet two hours later he was still at the gates of Knightsbridge on Thurloe Place, awaiting permission to enter the district. His paperwork was impeccable, with resident’s passport (his real one), firearms licence and security carnet. However, his attire as a slummy sporting a National Party badge which, like an idiot, he had neglected to remove, clashed with the documentation. The border guards held him whilst a motorbike despatcher took his papers up to the City Hall in Westminster to check them against originals. Donald fretted out the hours amid grumbling servants and clerks trying to reach jobs in Mayfair, Bloomsbury, Soho and other districts consoling themselves on copious cigarettes. The talk around him proved quite an eye-opener. A wash of surplus flow had poured into Brent Cross asylum from the Great North Drain, having overwhelmed the ultramarines guarding the turnpike. The population of Brent Cross greeted it with axes, pipes, cleavers, wrenches and anything else that came to hand, compelling a flow reversal. The battle had left so many cadavers that the rendering plants had shut their gates. The surplus cadavers got dumped out on the public drains gratis by the ultramarines, who were in good standing as a result. No doubt the lammergeiers were pleased too.
“Mr Aldingford,” called the grade lieutenant in charge of the gate shift. He returned all the documents and apologised for the delay. Donald was hastening out before the man had finished.
On into Knightsbridge, where the avenues were parked up with limousines awaiting the return of owners from shopping trips, the drivers chatting and smoking. The great showroom windows cast fans of electric light into the street. Like tropical fish in tanks, ladies with their maids floated amidst carpets, paintings, rolls of silk, amphorae decorated in Greek or Egyptian pastiche, mirrors etched in tributes to Klimmt’s paintings (something of a current fad) and other status-clutter. This was hardly two miles from Fulham, yet in the relaxation of the drivers and the languid indulgences of the ladies, there was not a trace of alarm. These people had no clue what was happening.
The next barrier was the gate of Mayfair at Hyde Park Corner. The glory troops were of Guards to the People, the same glory trust securing Knightsbridge, so they did not delay him. He quick-marched up Park Lane. Hyde Park lay to one side and the towering beech hedges of sovereign palaces to the other. Just one last
