Their gang master lead them across the great market place to a brick office building, which faced directly onto the open gravel. In this respect it was unique, since otherwise the entire market area was surrounded by the tall brick walls of factory premises, or the ragged profiles of workers’ districts. The office building was a neat two-story structure. It looked brand new. What especially distinguished it was that the bricks were mortared, rather than being piled up dry as had been typical practice since the Glorious Resolution. Above the door a familiar motif had been painted, an orange circle on a dark green rectangle. Lawrence picked up some murmuring about the National Party. Their gang master addressed them. He explained they would be working for the National Party this day, helping put the finishing touches to this, its new headquarters. They would now receive breakfast in the canteen and then get to work carrying large items of furniture into the building.
So it was that Lawrence found himself indoors, warm, under electric lights, at a polished wooden table sitting on a chair—not a bench—gulping real fresh coffee, porridge, fried oats and boiled eggs. No one said he could not get seconds, so he helped himself. As with the previous day, he feigned a speech impediment to cover his accent, still managing to achieve some communication with those near him. They thought he was called Horace due to his impediment. Around the huddle of marginals moved slick-looking people in dark business suits, all bearing the orange and green emblem on their lapels. These must be Party officials. Some of them glanced with contempt at the unwashed labouring gang. Others came over and chatted like old friends, asking about the gangers’ lives. One of these officials made a rousing impromptu speech about how the Party would gather all the marginals, house them, feed them, give them real work constructing the new nation state. The gangers stood and cheered him. After that they had to earn their food.
Lawrence worked in his usual gutsy way, losing two partners as a result. His third partner was a jaunty character called Bob. Whilst lugging desks into the headquarters, the blatant impudence of the National Party stirred Lawrence’s curiosity. It was clear that far away in Oban, he had been out of touch with the growth of radical politics down here in the south. Five years ago, any radical party opening its HQ inside an industrial asylum would have been wiped out—the factory owners would have put down good gold for glory trusts to clean their dustbin. However, the factory owners must now support this so-called National Party. That meant a political rift existed between the industrial asylums and the sovereign landowners. Lawrence had never heard of such a situation before.
It did occur to him the National Party would leap at news of the Value System (to put it mildly). No doubt they would dismiss him as a lunatic to begin with—but he could prove everything he said. He had the pouch of fiat fingernails safe in an inside pocket. He could stab a map and state: that is where the abomination can be found.
The potential started to stress him. He was exceptionally lucky to have access to the National Party HQ building. It was a privilege he might never again enjoy. One who fails to grab good luck deserves their fate. Every time he lifted another desk up through the building, he could see into offices busy with clacking typists and officials poring over paperwork. Should he just walk in and start talking to them? A certain social restraint held him back, or perhaps his subconscious sensed a danger he could not articulate in logic. The gang knocked off to have lunch. Now Bob was becoming friendly, badgering Lawrence with all sorts of questions and offering his own tale of woe. He once had a good job in the ZEEBRI industrial complex here in Brent Cross as a sheet-metal beater, until he had one too many arguments with his chargehand and that was the end of his good job. Lawrence maintained the non-committal pose of a simpleton.
Perhaps it is a law of life that extreme bad luck is balanced by ridiculous good luck, or at least, it looks good luck at the time. After the shock of encountering Master Sergeant Ratty on his motorbike in Camden, life owed Lawrence some good luck. An hour or so after lunch, he hefted one end of a filing cabinet off the back of an ultramarine wagon. He was pre-occupied with the vague unease of being near the two ultramarine crew of the wagon. Although they paid him not the least attention, he still experienced a visceral reluctance to be anywhere near them. As he was approaching the steps of the headquarters building, one of the dark-suited Party types was descending with a measured elegance to his litter and its four carriers. Lawrence almost dropped his end of the filing cabinet. It was Kalchelik of all people. There was absolutely no mistaking those hooded, cold eyes or the limp from childhood polio despite the grey hairs and facial lines acquired in the last decade. The limp was worse than it had been in his glory trooper days. Kalchelik settled himself in the litter and rapped its side. His bearers lifted him and off he floated across the market place, winning right of way over ultramarine wagons, which had to veer or stop altogether to permit him to pass.
Lawrence set down the filing cabinet and ran,
