It wasn’t until I had to attend a conference on ‘cinematic wireless’ several weeks later that I found myself on the early morning streamliner from Low Central. There had been a great deal of uncertainty surrounding the election result, which made for a gloomy mood nationwide for several weeks afterwards. Business was bad, and rumours were rife.
There was a sense of edginess to the air of a different sort as members of the press formed a crowd at one of the platforms. According to the owner of ‘my’ regular newsstand, they were due to report on the arrival of a new ‘oil engine’ train to run on the somewhat more prestigious Cross Line that ran from the south-east to north-west; although it could well have been, as the newsagent put it with a grim subtext, “just a distraction for all that other stuff that’s going on.”
I received a strange glare from ‘George’, the old regular traveller who usually sat on the opposite side of the carriage, but instead of taking his usual seat he was already arguing with the conductor and marched grumpily into the First Class compartment. I noticed that at least some of the banknotes went into the conductor’s own pocket instead of his cash bag before he moved on to check the tickets of another regular fixture: a table full of Northern city types who this time held curiously-coloured green tickets that I hadn’t seen before.
I also noticed that the old fool had in his haste left his briefcase on the luggage rack, and being the terminally helpful individual that I am, I quickly alerted him and passed the case over. For an act of random kindness, he didn’t seem to show any gratitude at all; as a matter of fact he seemed almost annoyed that I had handed his property back to him.
In her customary seat, with what I now saw as her regular indulgence in the form of a cup of green tea, sat Alison with an expression of barely-contained curiosity. She had apparently watched my short conversation with our fellow regular traveller with interest, and had a few choice words to say about his rudeness. I shrugged it off with typical nonchalance as any self-respecting (or more accurately, self-conscious) young gentleman would do when in the company of a striking young lady. It wasn’t particularly effective, since this particular young lady didn’t seem to buy it at all.
“I’ve been keeping an eye on him during the past few weeks,” she explained. “He’s not half as interested in what’s going on in here when you’re not on board. Did you see the way he was watching you?”
I scratched my head absent-mindedly as I hung my hat on the overhead rack, and thought for a moment. “I did notice the old fellow was paying a bit more attention to me lately, but I can’t think why.”
Alison looked somewhat serious – concerned, even – then reached into her bag and pulled out a small sheaf of documents. “I’ve heard some strange rumours, you know. Amidst the usual extremist ramblings, even some of the Progressives have been reporting suspicious characters tailing them. I mentioned that I’ve also noticed one or two characters acting strangely when I’ve been out in public so I was given access to some inside information…which was when I remembered our conversation last time.”
My raised eyebrows were enough of a cue for her to elaborate. “There’s the usual muck-slinging and, as much as it might surprise you that I’m admitting this given that I work for a political organisation, misinformation from both sides.” She paused to demurely take a sip of tea. “I’ve discounted the really political papers – partly because I could get arrested for reading some of them and also because they’re not very reliable in any case – but there are some decidedly odd stories emerging in regards to the Reunification policy. I’ve been reading between the lines here, and…”
I must have had a very gormless look on my face at this point. “I don’t mean to pry, but what the devil is your job, exactly?”
“I won’t use the cliché of ‘if I told you I’d have to kill you’, but if nothing else I think it best that you don’t ask. Besides, it was you who made the breakthrough this time so I can’t take full credit for it. Here.”
I duly took the carefully-folded documents and tried to make sense of the headlines. “How much do you know about the Ennor Islands?” she asked.
“Beyond what’s in the newsreels at the local Odeon, virtually nothing. They recently fell under joint Army and Air Force ownership, but the main thing that sticks in my mind is just the archeological site that the experts think is connected to some ancient queen’s burial place. That’s it I’m afraid.”
“That’s understandable. Until recently that’s all I knew…although my interest in archaeology is slightly stronger than yours.” She gave an apologetic smile. “Anyway. There have been accusations, vehemently denied of course, that the area was being used for weapons testing, as a military airstrip and various other things that taxpayers worry that their money is being frittered away on. The truth is a bit different from any of that.”
Alison finished her tea while I pored over the rest of the document. The periodic widening of my eyes would I’m sure have been amusing to her had the subject matter not been so shocking. I glanced up when I’d finished. “Is this purely conjecture on your part, or…?”
“No,” she answered seriously. “It’s partly your conjecture, which turned out to be right on the money. I wanted to discuss it with you before taking it further, as I’m sure you will understand.”
“Certainly. This is probably the worst possible place to do that, however. Would it be better to meet elsewhere and discuss it then?”
“That was my thought exactly,” she agreed, glancing into her cup. “Are you going to suggest a place, or has this tea rationing killed chivalry after all?”
*
That was how I found myself running to the bus station during a break in the conference to meet Alison at a small café not far from Avalon Street East that had, coincidentally, a panoramic view of the main city square. Social etiquette demanded that she had to arrive fashionably late, but I didn’t need to wait for as long as I expected. Trying to avoid making our meeting appear too personal or suspicious in some other sense, I gave her one of our customarily businesslike handshakes as I held my umbrella out to shield her from the rain as she placed her own in a stand at the door.
The interior was of the latest art deco style, which felt slighty odd considering the reason for our meeting. Two well-dressed young professionals wouldn’t attract much attention here though, and there were more secluded corners than logic dictated an establishment of this shape and size ought to have. Shortly after the waiter had been and gone with the drinks, I started asking the questions.
“What is the truth about the Reunification, then?”
“There isn’t one,” she answered simply. “It was a complete U-turn. If anything, they’re doing the opposite and making preparations for fortifying the border still further.”
“Is that why…?” I began.
“I believe so.”
“So, you worked this out based on my…idle chatter a few weeks ago?”
“Think of your contribution as the final piece of a jigsaw,” she replied. “Since you saw through so much of the subterfuge you’re possibly already in danger, so I decided that that you needed to know the full facts – even if it exposed you to more – so you can make an informed decision. That’s assuming I’m right, about all this, of course.”
“I think the, uh, evidence you’ve collected here pretty much confirms that,” I answered. “But really? The Ennor Islands?”
“It makes sense…at least to them. The papers might be championing a win for the current regime, but there are foreign eyes on them now and time to push for something like this is running out. Actually, I’m impressed that they’ve managed to pull this off under our noses for so long.”
I looked out towards the door at the thronging crowds in the square. Some were running to dodge the rain; others were standing patiently with umbrellas or folded newspapers over their heads, waiting for their families or friends to meet them. It was busy, vibrant and gave the impression of a country looking outwards to a brighter future: oil-engine trains, super Brabazons scudding across the sky to distant lands, openness with the regions to the north, beyond the termini of the Cross Lines…when in truth we were walking backwards. With a jolt I saw a familiar figure walk into the cafe and argue with the cashier in a familiar fashion. Alison noticed the colour drain from my face.
“It’s starting already. I’m terribly sorry, but it looks like you’ll have to make your decision sooner than I thought.”
“That old man? He’s an informer?!” I whispered fiercely, hiding the lower half of my face in a paranoia, in case he could lip-read.
“The best ones are the most innocuous and unlikely. If nothing else, we can give him the slip without attracting attention.”
I took this as an opportunity to ask for the bill, pay quickly and quietly and leave in the same without making a scene. Before I could stand to leave, Alison grabbed my arm. “Wait. I don’t think we need to worry about that…yet.”
Asking her as politely as possible what the devil she thought she was doing, she started looking inside her handbag and asked me to keep an eye on the new customer. As the old man looked nervously at the door to the men’s room, she declared that it was time. We stood up to leave but as we passed the neighbouring table where the familiar figure had chosen to sit, Alison ‘accidentally’ dropped her purse. While I gave a sheepish well-what-can-you-do shrug to a nearby waiter at my companion’s clumsiness, the search for her errant purse took her to a briefcase that was placed under the table suspiciously close to our own. With a show of lightning reactions, she deftly unclipped the latches to the case, took a small Leica from her handbag and took a quick snap of the contents before grabbing me by the arm and steering me towards the door.
*
Her little stunt in the café was, according to Alison, pretty reckless and possibly not worth the risk, although she would know soon enough when she could get the film developed. “We do at least know that your friend George was carrying a concealed audio tape recorder,” she explained later.
I on the other hand was still trying to keep up with the chain of events. Quite a lot of things were starting to make sense, but the bigger picture was, quite frankly, frightening. I wasn’t sure whether all this unwanted attention was deserved, but since they – whoever ‘they’ were – had decided that I was a subject of interest I had to take a long, hard look at my current situation and evaluate what was about to change.
I was going to miss my current job. The cinematic wireless thing was fascinating assuming the engineering department could deliver (not that I attended the rest of the conference, what with everything that happened immediately after that covert meeting at the café) and I enjoyed the travelling. Unfortunately it was the travelling that got me into this mess in the first place, and I was only now starting to understand what that really meant.
A matter of a few days later, when the documents that I’d read on that train had been sent in xerograph format to a select group of high-profile popular publications, I was leaving my house for the last time. The cat was now with the elderly lady at number thirty-three, and the last time I saw him he was given a saucer of what she called ‘cat beer’ and I made my excuses before leaving the street for good. I can’t even recall exactly what excuses I’d given; not that it matters now.
The news of the re-fortification – soon to be capitalised in the way that optimistic commentators had done for the Reunification – had broken. The papers were still deciding what was the biggest scandal so newsagents and, despite the government’s best intentions, cinema newsreels ran both connected stories simultaneously. NORTH/SOUTH REUNIFICATION FAILS: one read. COVERT CONSTRUCTION OF FORTIFICATIONS ON NORTHERN BORDERS.
The other headline and soon-to-be national scandal was emblazoned across the newsstands at Low Central as I met my soon-to-be work colleague. She waited patiently for me in that distinctive dark coat with two train tickets in hand. Every newspaper carried some variant on FORCED RELOCATION OF NORTHERN CITY BY STEALTH. PUBLIC DEMANDS ANSWERS.
I wasn’t one hundred per cent certain where I would be going from here; it wasn’t much comfort to know I was luckier than those poor souls who were being displaced to some remote islands on the far south-westerly reaches of the country. Unlike them, I had a choice and I was trying my damndest to enjoy the freedom of the moment.
THE END
Tags: dieselpunk, original fiction