“Jolly good!”
“We’ll use the Marylebone Suite as our new home,” TK said. “We’ll be safe enough there for the time being, even if this poor old house gets taken.”
“I’ll order the convoy on its way,” Wingfield said. He was delighted to be staying in the Central Enclave in defiance of the nationalists. The Marylebone Suite would make an excellent local base for spying. Besides, it was beneath contempt to run from a pack of jabbering militants.
*
Donald and Sarah-Kelly found Ladbroke fort occupied once again with glory troopers, although not from one glory trust. They were from all three big names: the olive green of General Wardian, the field green of Universal Parrier and the grey-green of Guards to the People. One feature of their dress code united them; all wore an armband, a vivid tricolour of deep blue, sulphur yellow and forest green. They also wore the National Party badge. Donald was at first reassured to find the gate in nationalist hands, since it ensured Krossington marines would not be welcome here and it seemed unlikely TK could have organised spies so quickly.
A couple of men in black leather raincoats approached and asked Donald and Sarah-Kelly to follow them over to a line of little tables set against the wall on the public side of the counter. Donald’s heart hammered, his eyes flicked about for escape routes. This was not a situation one could shoot a way out of. There were glory troops at the entrance and exit nursing submachine guns. He would just have to blag this one out. The two men were hard-faced types, without four o’clock shadows and still fresh at half past one in the morning. The shorter one was a little overweight, with a babyface, the taller one older, with pronounced cheekbones. He was so thin his nose had sunken sides—doubtless an ascetic who starved himself to feel worthy.
“Good evening,” said this older, ascetic one, “Let’s have some ID.”
“I’m a Party member,” said Sarah-Kelly, laying down her National Party card with her North Kensington basin passport and Central Enclave visa. Donald set down his real Central Enclave passport and firearms carry permit, acutely aware the false messenger’s passport issued to him by Wingfield weeks ago still nestled inside his jacket. He was sunk if they found that.
However, Mr Ascetic was taking the greater interest in Sarah-Kelly’s documentation.
“Just a minute,” he said. His chair rumbled as he stood and strode away behind the counter, taking her Party member’s card with him. He dropped from view whilst leaning to consult something on a desk and came back within thirty seconds. “I thought I recognised the name. You are listed as missing from the Bloomsbury Massacre. Why have you not reported in?”
“I wasn’t aware I was meant to.”
“Where have you been?”
“Ah, perhaps I might explain something,” Donald said, with all the blandness he could muster, “Miss Newman—”
“That address is no longer acceptable. We now use ‘madam’.”
“Madam Newman was deeply traumatised by the event and took shelter in my household. It was only with great difficulty I was able to persuade her to travel tonight to assure her family that she is safe.”
“And you are—” Once again the chair rumbled and once again Mr Ascetic departed, this time with Donald’s passport. Again his head dipped from view in consulting some documents. Donald could see the back of his head shaking as if he were in discussion with someone. When he returned, his expression was deeply serious.
“You’re on the Sought List.”
“What does that mean, please?”
“You are sought by the Provisional Cabinet.”
“I am?” Donald was genuinely amazed. “Why?”
“I’ve no idea.” Mr Ascetic pulled a humourless smile. “We don’t need to know.”
“Think positive, you’ll be taken up to headquarters in a car,” Mr Babyface said. His eyes lingered on Sarah-Kelly’s face and Donald’s. “Are you two shagging, or what?”
Donald gave Sarah-Kelly’s ankle a sharp kick.
“You don’t need to know,” he said, standing up and reaching to get his documents back.
“No. We’ll keep these,” Mr Ascetic said, gathering up their IDs and snapping a rubber band around them. “Wait in that room until you’re called.”
Donald and Sarah-Kelly moved into a squalid room of chipped benches. Blisters of damp had burst and left debris on the floor. The air smelled of toilets. They sat as far from other people as they could.
“Who did those two pricks think they were?” Sarah-Kelly huffed.
“Unfortunately, it’s beginning already.”
“What’s beginning?”
“The mobilisation of sadism. It’s all there in the history books.” Donald spotted the entrance to the toilets. “Wait for me.” He advanced into a rising stench, found a free cubicle and went in. By a combination of biting, bending and tearing he broke up the fake messenger’s passport into bits, which he dropped into the unspeakable pit beneath the cistern.
“What’s the mobilisation of sadism?” Sarah-Kelly asked him on his return.
“Keep your voice down. Let me explain something. All power is based on violence and the threat of violence. No exceptions. The sovereigns mobilise the sadism of the glory troopers—you have exposed that through the Atrocity Commission. Before the sovereigns, it was the nation states with their nuclear weapons and oligarchs with their private armies. Before the nation states, it was feudal barons and their henchmen. The National Party will not be any different. All you and I can hope is that we are not the surplus of tomorrow.”
“I’m a well-known Party member, they’re hardly likely to turf us on the drains.”
“The Party will reign by rhetoric above the belt and neck-shooting below the belt. You’ll believe it when you see it. It’s much better to be prepared.”
“Where do you get these ideas from?”
“History goes around and around, Skay. I’ve a nasty feeling it’s going to be
