Not all recruits became killers. A few killed themselves. Others deserted. Others went mad. Still others transferred out as fast as they could and avoided ‘hard’ units at the cost of a stifled career. There had always been choices. On the day Kalchelik blew an old man to bits with a 20mm rifle, Lawrence could have simply walked out—deserted. He had a good family to return to. He could have sorted his shit, got some A-levels, gone to university and pursued another career. Yes, there had been choices.
A numbness filled his soul. So much for the grand account-captain first class in his finery… He shook his head, struck by how incomprehensible his old values now felt. If asked now, “What motivates you?” he would have answered, “Imagine falling down a bottomless shaft—forever.”
He sat in his father’s study for a while, trying to coax his mood back up, all too aware he could not afford the indulgence of depressive breakdown. The mistake was to sit down and stare at an empty desk. It was the clean logic of action that cured the wounded mind. In the kitchen he gathered cold chicken, ham, bread and water. He vaguely recalled some camping equipment stored in the basement and purloined a waxed cotton sou’wester hat and a canvas knapsack with a couple of water flasks pouched into it. Clothing was a problem. His old clothes were gone from his room. Neither his father nor his brother were his size. The best he could find were some rather tight long-johns and a pullover in the garage probably used by the chauffeur. Whilst chomping a meat pie, he also gathered some tools from the garage: pliers for cutting wires and a knife in a leather sheath. A search for his father’s automatic pistol yielded nothing. He had to make do with a quiver of arrows from brother Donald’s old bedroom cupboard. A watch would have been useful. Despite their prosperity, the Aldingfords did not leave watches lying around.
The first yards from the family’s home were hard paces. The prospect of the great, dark wilderness of everywhere else was crushing. Was it not ridiculous to feel this way? He was twenty-seven years old, a grown man. No, it was not ridiculous to feel this way. People who go out into the world without a place to stop are by definition surplus. He knew that North Kensington basin was his last real hope. It was not that he had no other options; top killer of rats was a career option, just not one he classed as a ‘hope’.
Chapter 18
Would he have attended his father’s funeral had he been free? Would he even have answered his stepmother’s letters? In Oban, he lived inside a shell of his own vanity, contemptuous of the stolid society of a colony town, so proud of his historical theories and provocative choice of girlfriend. His head was stuck too far up his own arse to see the danger. No, he probably would not have attended the funeral. If he was honest with himself, he could not accuse those lying Oban swine of having stolen his father’s death from him.
Lawrence struggled for morale. With enough concentration he could channel his mind into thoughts only of how to break in to North Kensington basin, but he kept slumping into preoccupation with his dismal circumstances. How could he ever rebuild a new life? That is, a decent life with good gold and status fit for Sarah-Kelly? He just could not see it. No matter how hard he tried, he could not see a way out.
He stumbled, apathetic. Once, he barged into someone in the dark and had to apologise and get away rapidly. Then he hit a tree and fell down on the gravel. Everything he could think of led to the same dead end that he was Fog on the run.
The quickest route to North Kensington basin from Bloomsbury was along a wide boulevard called Euston Road, followed by a right turn into another boulevard called Ladbroke Grove. From there it was a dead straight run up to Ladbroke fort at the Grande Enceinte. Normally Euston Road jostled with glory trucks and armoured cars. This night, not a vehicle was to be heard. The only traffic was of servants fleeing the Central Enclave back to the safety of their asylum homes. In the darkness, the weight of flow could only be guessed by listening, although as he approached the junction with Ladbroke Grove a couple of lights created a little scene with figures drifting through it like motes. Getting closer, he heard a Stirling generator chugging and smelled its wood smoke. Figures laboured at beating two posts into the gravel. They hung out a National Party flag about the size of a double bed and began hailing into the darkness. Some of the flow around Lawrence peeled off to take a look. Soon a crowd had gathered. Lawrence hesitated. He was wary of the black-suited Party officials; they were apt to start demanding passports. A dirty tramp armed with a bow and arrows was bound to attract their notice. These black suits were shouting about a Party bulletin whilst passing out handfuls of printed sheets to the crowd. On hearing mention of an arrest list, he hastened away from the light.
Nothing he could do would change whether he was on that arrest list or not. However, the sight of Party officials sprang fears of passport checks in Ladbroke fort and the closing of the turnpike toll. To his vast relief, the customs was a deserted cave and the turnpike still open.
