Presented with Donald’s passport, the desk sergeant called his officer over. This officer’s face was naggingly familiar. He was a team lieutenant in his mid-twenties, thick-set and bull necked, face beaten squint at rugby. Donald knew this type from his schooldays. Dumb for the scrum, the hero carried off stunned, never passed an exam in his life. The team lieutenant studied Donald’s papers. When he looked up, Donald recognised him instantly.
“Team Lieutenant Haighman!”
“Donald Aldingford I presume? Hardly dressed for the Land Court of Westminster.”
“It’s an odd job I’m on, I have to gather evidence from working people.” He leaned across to murmur in his ear. “It’s closer to the divorce court than the Land Court, if you know what I mean.”
Haighman gave a conspiratorial nod.
“Sounds tricky stuff. As for myself, I got drafted in to help deal with these bloody radicals. Our bosses are tearing their hair out because they can’t get clear instructions from City Hall. It’s like asking a cage of rabbits what to do about Mr Fox. They just lollop about nibbling carrots. I’ve never come across such useless people.”
This did not surprise Donald. All the councillors of the Central Enclave he had met were windbags. Trapped between the sovereigns and the industrial asylums, they would have no idea what to do.
This time it was Haighman who leaned across the counter.
“Let me give you some advice. Go straight home and stay home for the rest of the day. There’s going to be action in Bloomsbury, the kind of thing your brother Lawrence would relish, if you know what I mean.”
Donald did not know what he meant, so merely smiled and said thank you. After clearing the district gates, he made a detour to get his Colt 38 automatic from the house. When he approached Bloomsbury College, all appeared peaceful. The district had an almost deserted air about it, as was usual for a Saturday afternoon. However, he found the dingy lane outside Bloomsbury College was crowded with glory troopers from all of the big three trusts: General Wardian, Universal Parrier and Guards to the People. Donald’s first impression was that they had just come off-duty after breaking up some kind of riot. Some had bleeding or bruised faces, many had ripped pockets hanging down or tears in their trousers. None carried weapons.
The reception hall inside the National Party building had been turned into a dressing station. Two young women in white coats moved amongst scores of casualties laid on the floor or propped on benches around the walls. Some on the floor were serious cases. He saw one man with his face completely bandaged up, leaving just one eye peered out. Another was the colour of toothpaste, his right arm splinted with half a broom handle. Donald began to step through the casualties to reach the stairs when the roughneck Valentin and his two side-kicks appeared and confronted him.
“What are you doing here?”
“I have to see Vasco Banner.”
“He’s busy,” said Valentin. “You won’t get a meeting today. All hell’s broken loose with the glories whacking the Party down in Fulham. That’s where this lot have come from.” He gestured to the casualties all over the floor. “They got dragged here by all those guys outside.”
“You mean glory troops are fighting glory troops?”
“Correct.”
“How did they get here from Fulham?”
“Crashed through the district gates by force of numbers. Officers were screaming to open fire at what they called ‘a sewage of riff-raff and sub-humanity’. Their boys ignored them—no trooper is going to shoot blokes in the same uniform.”
So, it was civil war.
“I have a reliable warning General Wardian troops are going to attack this afternoon. They have guns and you don’t. You must evacuate,” Donald said.
Valentin stared at him.
“That’s exactly what I’ve been saying, only I can’t get nobody to listen. After that riot in Fulham they’re bound to hit us. We need guns, but…”
In the Central Enclave, it was a capital offense to bear a firearm without a licence.
Valentin led him up to the top floor. Banner’s office was packed with people in some kind of conference. Donald burst in the door, shoving bodies out of the way.
“You’ve got to evacuate. General Wardian is going to attack.”
The scene was like a hearing. A young man—a leading basic of General Wardian—sat on a chair before Banner’s desk. He jumped in shock at Donald’s breaking through the press of people. Banner was leaning forward, attentive, like a doctor recording a patient’s woes. Beside him sat Sarah-Kelly, her eyes glistening. On Banner’s other side were two stenographers, their stenotypes peeling out coils of paper ribbon. Banner lifted his jaw without looking up, frowning at the interruption.
“Get out.”
Valentin and his two pals emerged like walruses, the people pouring off them to either side.
“President, you have to listen to him.”
“Why?”
“He says General Wardian are going to hit us.”
“They won’t dare touch us here under the noses of their precious clientele. The glory trusts do what they like out of sight, as this brave young man is telling us—" He gestured to the young leading basic. “—but they can’t do things like that here in town before an audience.”
“I have it from the horse’s mouth there will be an action in Bloomsbury this afternoon,” Donald said. “An officer… oh Christ, it doesn’t really matter. You have to get the wounded to my house. I guarantee no bloody glory thugs will touch them there. Tell everyone else to scatter.” When Banner just sat there with one supercilious eyebrow cocked, Donald stepped forward. “If you won’t act, then I will.”
“Would you please remove this man, Mr Valentin?”
Donald shoved his way around the end of Banner’s desk, grabbed Sarah-Kelly under the arms and started hauling her towards the door into a scrum of earnest Party types gathering to object, shouting and prising his arms back. A voice enormous like a bark of thunder froze everybody. It was Banner. He jumped to
