She placed a finger into her ear, listening to orders through an earpiece. ‘Everyone who comes in here asks that question,’ she said gruffly but without answering it. So he left it at that.
She hadn’t said much earlier when she’d flashed him an identification card on the concourse of Euston station, then escorted him to an awaiting vehicle. They’d travelled in silence to a building on the banks of London’s River Thames. The pungent odour of burned plastic that had struck him on the ground floor had faded with each storey climbed. It reminded him of the smell in his mother’s car when he’d been allowed inside it after she had deliberately driven into the pillar of a bridge. He didn’t know what had compelled him to want to sit inside the wreckage until he’d found her St Christopher necklace in the footwell.
Now on the third floor, Anthony’s escort led the way through more heavy doors before reaching a near-empty room. A bank of empty phone sockets stretched in a diagonal line and a dozen broken desks and chairs with missing wheels were stacked up in the corner under smeared windows. Its condition didn’t surprise him. Over the years, the meeting places altered but their condition remained predictably unkempt. He could only assume the majority of the Government’s off-the-books work was completed far away from Westminster’s prying eyes.
After surrendering all his electronics to the escort and undergoing a full body scan, Anthony pressed the pads of his fingers against a screen while reading from a script on a separate screen below it. Biometric devices scanned his eyes and speech patterns until they verified his identity. A final set of doors, this time constructed from thick metal, slid open to reveal an open-plan, windowless room.
Anthony took a seat amongst more than a dozen people sitting at tables pushed together in a U-shape formation. There were no visible phones or tablets, not even a notepad or pen. All but one of the dozen television screens attached to the walls were unplugged. Whatever this meeting was about, there was to be no official record of it.
He poured water from an open bottle into a glass as he scanned the room for familiar faces. Henry Hyde, the man who had recruited Anthony while he was still studying at university some fifteen years earlier, turned his head and gave him a nod. His face was ageless – he could be in his mid-thirties or mid-fifties. And he had always looked like this since he and Anthony had first met. His clothes were like a uniform, the same black suit, black shoes, white shirt and black tie every time. It was as if he was on permanent standby for a funeral. Close to him was MP Maddy Cordell, the Minister of State, her heels as sharp as her tongue. The rest were unfamiliar to him.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, shall we make a start?’ began Hyde, removing a remote control from his pocket. He pointed it at the screen and a live image appeared of Anthony’s local MP, Eleanor Harrison. She was a no-nonsense Education Secretary whom, until now, he had yet to witness without her trademark bright-red lipstick. Today, however, she was make-up free and had bruising under her eyes and a cut to her head. He recalled reading about a recent hospital admission but he couldn’t remember the details.
‘I’m sure I don’t need to update you on the events of Jem Jones’ tragic death two weeks ago,’ Hyde continued. ‘Naturally, our sympathies lie with her family at this difficult time.’
A ripple of amusement spread across the room. Anthony was the exception. He wanted to shout at them, telling them to shut up and show some respect, but he knew how ridiculous it would sound. Instead, he quietly simmered until Hyde turned his attention to him.
‘Had it not been for Jem’s support and influence on the general public, I don’t think it’s inaccurate of me to suggest that we might not have won the last election with such a clear majority and pushed through the Marriage Act,’ he continued. ‘But times change, and so does public opinion. And once Freedom for All became a party in its own right, we had little choice but to up the ante. Jem was a sacrifice we were forced to make in order to direct support away from the FFA and back towards us. It was an appropriate conclusion to her era.’
‘Buthasit concluded though?’ asked Eleanor Harrison. ‘I’d have assumed after her death, anti-Acters would be keeping a low profile. But it appears they’re more prolific than ever.’
‘Bloody Freedom for All terrorists are as bad as suicide bombers.’
‘At least suicide bombers have the good manners to blow themselves up,’ Harrison replied. ‘The FFA keeps crawling back like cockroaches.’
‘Let Jem’s supporters and the FFA fight it out amongst themselves,’ Hyde said. ‘And if it quietens down, we will intervene to fan the flames and ensure the fire rages on.’
Anthony held his gaze firmly on the desktop. He didn’t want to look up and witness the smug, arrogant faces of those surrounding him. He didn’t belong here. None of them realized that, in killing her, he had lost a part of himself.
‘The social media pollsters have assured us the majority of the public remains supportive of the Act and consistent in their blame of Freedom for All for Jem’s “suicide”,’ added Hyde.
A man with his dreadlocks tied above his head snorted. ‘Are they the same pollsters who predicted Scotland would remain in the United Kingdom after the referendum or that we’d be back in Europe by now?’
‘Polling isn’t an exact science and there’s always a margin of error,’ Hyde scowled. ‘The electorate can be notoriously hard to predict.’ He loosened the top button on his oversized jacket. ‘Moving on to the matter in hand. And this is where you come in, Anthony. There is a new era of opportunity coming that we would like you to strategize. It is ambitious but necessary for the next stage of our country’s growth. And it will have a direct effect on almost every single family, perhaps more so than the roll-out of the Audite.’
Filled more with apprehension than curiosity, Anthony listened intently as Hyde revealed their agenda. And the more he heard, the more his fingertips began clawing at the arms of the chair, as if desperate to remain afloat in quicksand.
‘So I hope that you are in agreement,’ concluded Hyde almost an hour later. ‘To futureproof the United Kingdom within one generation, this is the way forward.’
This time, Anthony’s eyes flitted around the room. Some of the faces appeared to approve, but others were suspicious. He wondered if any quietly shared his outright distaste.
‘Your thoughts, Anthony?’ Hyde asked suddenly. ‘I assume this is something that you can begin working on immediately?’
Anthony wanted to tell him no, that this was a step too far, that he could go to hell and find another puppet to do his dirty work. He wanted to rise to his feet, turn his back on them, walk out of the door and forget everything he had heard. He wanted them to know that in killing Jem, he had made a monumental lapse in judgement. That all he wanted was to return to his wife and his son, put the house up for sale and catch the first flight to Saint Lucia where they could start afresh and away from this madness. Only none of that was possible yet.
‘Of course,’ he replied, nodding his head in the same way he’d done for the last fifteen years. ‘I’m sure I can.’
25
Corrine
‘That isn’t traceable, is it?’ asked Corrine, a note of fearcatching in her throat.
The person of indeterminable gender sitting next to her and hunched over a keyboard gave her a sideways glance as if to suggest it was a stupid question. Of course it wasn’t traceable, thought Corrine. As a former member of the now defunct collective, this person had escaped arrest despite a worldwide hunt for all associates. They were not an amateur.
‘What’s the kid’s name?’ they asked in a well-spoken accent that belied their scruffy baseball cap, jeans and army fatigue jacket.
‘Nathan, but I don’t have a surname.’
