The day was perfect for his purpose. It was clear all the way from one side of the sky to the other, with low tide around 2 pm. This provided the chance to investigate something that had puzzled him since the very first day: why could he hear breakers at low tide?
It took him only minutes to reach a point about half-way to the Tidal Basin, where he left the main path at a right angle, pushing along an unkempt dyke running towards the sea defence. The top of the sea defence offered a vista of mud flats and sand bars spreading away to a white skin of surf on the horizon. From the right came a smooth roar of breakers where a channel issued into the sea about a mile away down the coast. At low tide, it refunded its backed-up head into the surf, which stood high and peeled over in longs grins of foam.
There were many channels that drained the hundreds of square miles of the fens. They changed course all the time. The neat, engineered water system of the Public Era had largely disappeared as the sea had returned to inundate the hinterland. By the sun, he knew this coast faced almost due north. The complete absence of sea or air traffic hinted this forgotten place was on the coast of The Wash, a dead end of dangerous shoals and swirling tides at the northern corner of East Anglia many miles from any trade routes. He could think of no other north-facing coast as soggy and desolate, unless this was continental Europe beneath his feet.
He sat with his knees drawn up under his chin, staring at the horizon, feeling almost free, yet all too aware of the metal tag pinned through his ear and harshly conscious of the miles of water and wilderness all around. He had to force himself to believe that nothing was so formidable he could not beat it.
On the path back towards the Square, he started to hear rustling and grunts in the bushes to the landward side, then a sort of yelp and another yelp. He picked up a couple of stones and stretched into a steady jog, nothing panicky, just better progress. The sounds of pursuit correspondingly intensified, suggesting a hunting party throwing itself through vegetation, no longer bothering about stealth, which meant they must believe they had him banged to rights. A marsh warrior leaped onto the path just five yards ahead. He wore a wicker jacket and a dress of what looked like seagull wings. Across his forehead was a scarlet bar. Lawrence threw out his arms and uttered a dreadful scream, charging just as a second warrior jumped out and abruptly jumped back in fright. Lawrence hurled one of the stones, hitting the first warrior smack on the mouth with a crack of teeth. The warrior spun away, wailing with both hands clamped to his mouth, assisted by a punch in the kidneys from Lawrence as he broke into an outright sprint. He pounded the last two hundred metres with death’s terror scorching his blood, folding up panting on reaching the archway to the Yard. Christ, he had thought the area around the Square safe in daylight. He would have to be more careful. That was just too close a call for comfort.
On the way back to the football pitches, he had to cross the drawbridge over the Tidal Creek. In approaching it, he had several minutes on the long straight path to savour an encounter with SMS London, who was waiting, cracker pipe in hand, eyes cold with anger. This was not going to have a happy outcome. Lawrence adopted a hang-dog, submissive stance, keeping his eyes down.
“Value Big Stak presenting, Senior Master Sergeant London.”
“Where have you been, Big Stak?”
“I was admiring the sea view, Senior Master Sergeant London.”
“I would normally apply a peremptory measure by way of incentivising correct behaviour. However, fortunately for you, I do not have the opportunity on this occasion to do so. Follow me, The Captain wishes to talk with you.”
Back at the Square, Lawrence was led through the grand door from which The Captain’s emerged at each parade. Within was a gloomy, wood-panelled corridor running through the building. The door at the far end opened into a walled garden, a suntrap, balmy and calm. Ivy climbed the brick walls, grass neat like green velvet spread around flower beds cut in perfect circles. At this time of the year, it was of course a place of bare stems and roses pruned back to thorny stumps, awaiting the resurgence of spring.
The Captain was draped out on a deck chair, engrossed in paperwork. Files, thick books and notes surrounded him. A calculating machine stood on a foot stool. He was frowning at what looked like an accounts sheet. In a white shirt and olive-green cotton trousers, he appeared far from being the maniac who had conjured up the Value System. He reminded Lawrence more of his old physics teacher—the same absolutely exclusive concentration of a first class mind. The only hint of middle age was a pair of reading glasses perched halfway down the nose. He was not armed.
The two arrivals stood for some minutes before The Captain laid aside his work.
“I am sorry I kept you waiting SMS, but I couldn’t risk losing count. One day I will have an electronic computer for this drudgery.”
“I apologise for the delay, The Captain. Value Big Stak chose a little rambling in lieu of football.”
The Captain thanked SMS London, then they were alone.
“I’m going to ask you some questions, Aldingford. You will tell the truth—the full and complete truth.”
“Yes, The Captain.”
This was, of course, the first time in almost two months that Lawrence had been addressed by his real surname. There was a finite gap—a large fraction of a second—between hearing it and recognising it. In the years to come, if those years were allowed to come, that gap would
