‘So he tells me. Where’s your den?’ asked Bastian.
‘Up there,’ replied Holroyd pointing into the canopy. ‘I hope you don’t mind climbing or sharing a spliff with me.’
‘Just show me the tree. We’ll go to your place for questioning.’
‘Not the police station?’
‘Let’s hear what you got to say first. Arresting Party members never did me any favours.’
* * *
Bastian was in Holroyd’s quarters provided by the Party with no loss of points. The smell of jasmine and lavender floated heavily in the air like layers of a cake but cutting his senses into several delicious slices rather than being served them. Two silver baubles used to swing incense hung from the wings of a limestone angel appropriated from a cemetery now a cornfield.
The curtains in the bungalow were orange silk and matched the cushions pushed against the brick walls between the joss sticks and candles. Rose and turquoise rhinestones were glued into the walls and there was an original STP campaign poster on the water closet door proclaiming ‘Truth Not Hunger.’
There were two large bear heads fixed on the wall between a pair of crossed ivory tusks screwed to the polished floorboards. In the kitchen was a set of mahogany drawers salvaged from an old shipwrecked tea-clipper and stuffed with both cooking and approved medicinal herbs.
‘What do you think of my base?’ asked Holroyd from the kitchen. ‘I made a few alterations upon my arrival.’
Bastian could hear a pan sizzling and the aromas alerted his stomach to a feast.
‘Uniquely uplifting,’ he replied.
On the flat roof was a terrace garden from which they could see the jungle. Holroyd lit a candle on the table between them and went to get the plates, knives and forks.
‘Tuck in,’ he said, and Bastian needed no further encouragement to taste Holroyd’s gazelle meatballs and basil stir-fry.
There were cannabis plants on the ground in bold coloured flowerpots and between them were several brightly coloured opium poppies growing from bags of government issued fertilizer.
‘Is your own opium not enough?’ asked Bastian.
‘For me, although the quality is questionable.’
‘So, you steal for others?’
‘Many benefit but I seek to help only one. The woman I love is held prisoner in Angole. She committed no crime but her parents were executed for subversion. I send her opium to cope and bribe others.’
‘Then yours is a crime of the heart,’ said Bastian.
‘Are you going to write a report?’
‘No, but be careful. Joshua knows someone is stealing the opium sap.’
‘Then so does Nabulus.’
Holroyd lit two cannabis spliffs and handed one to Bastian.
‘What do you know about Freya’s Anchor?’ asked Bastian before blowing a ring of smoke into the air.
‘Only what you and May have already uncovered, that they weren’t pre-retirees at all. But aren’t you worried the girl is a link to her mother’s customers?’
‘Of course, and like you, I will do all I can to help her.’
‘You have my word.’
‘How long have you been sending opium to Angole?’
‘Two years. But enough talk, let me show you how the less fortunate live on the chain-gang.’
‘Tonight?’
It was two in the morning.
‘Unless you’re tired. You can sleep here if you wish.’
‘But won’t we wake the prisoners up?’
Holroyd laughed.
‘Are you frightened we will disturb their sweet dreams? Don’t worry we won’t be asking for their opinions.’
Holroyd stood up and slid open a drawer from the battered Chippendale cabinet with the scratched mahogany and taken by the militia from the University of Holistic Medicine when it was still a grand house.
‘Let’s go,’ he said. ‘We’ll ride my camels.’
* * *
They were sleeping on the furthest edge of the jungle where the trees abruptly halted at the edge of the desert. Rows of men chained in leg-irons lay next to one another. Some fought over the thin lama wool blankets, others shivered. Those without their wooden shoes to protect from scorpions had already given up hope.
A camel approached.
‘My contact,’ whispered Holroyd. ‘Let me do the talking.’
‘Who’s he?’ asked the man, a taskmaster on the chain-gangs.
His clothes were covered with a poncho, his face with a scarf, and Bastian could only look into his eyes. But his accent was Siberian, a fertile recruiting ground for government henchmen.
‘My new partner. But tell me, how is my old one?’ replied Holroyd.
‘She lives and does not go hungry. Here’s another letter, she tells my brother it is her last.’
‘Nonetheless, make sure your brother gives her this opium.’
The man laughed as Holroyd handed over a small bag with a shoulder strap.
‘What’s so funny?’ asked Holroyd.
‘I hear her life is not so bad. But do you have my painting?’
Holroyd handed over the rolled-up masterpiece and a heartfelt note of his own.
‘What’s in it for him?’ asked Bastian on their way back to the village, the camels meandering underneath a starry sky.
‘Artwork from the museums demolished by the Party. I pick it up from the staff third hand shops whenever I visit London. I suspect a Rembrandt is worth more than a few IOU’s in Siberia.’
* * *
That night, Holroyd nervously opened the letter from his once intended bride with whom he’d shared a Licence to Populate:
Dear H,
I beg that you no longer risk your own freedom for mine. I have accepted my fate and my heart wishes you nothing but happiness. Please forget me and the past and enjoy life whilst you still can.
Yours,
W.
He fell asleep unwilling to let go and more determined to act than ever.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Attendance wasn’t compulsory on Dig Day but it did show your commitment to the STP and its principles. There were three groups on the common that morning: the fossil hunters, reclaimers, and miners, all chatting excitedly. Malthus weaved his way in and out of the crowd whilst carrying a bucket of slow roasted dung beetles drizzled with orange sauce for hungry mouths. The villagers carried their leather flagons slung over the shoulder.
The reclaimers wore thick gloves wary of old tin cans and bin liners full of smashed glass when the early militia
