Wilfred Ursall was dreaming. The dream was similar to
previous ones, a continuation of them. It was emotionally intense, powerful and
highly lucid; as recurrences progressed more details had emerged. It began with
Will walking across a plain of cracked, parched soil. The air was freezing
cold, but it was also stale and arid. He was wearing only light outdoor
clothing and so was shivering; his teeth chattered and his hands became numb.
His mouth was caked from microscopic fines, wafted by the lightest of breezes
into the air from the desiccated ground. He looked up into the sky; but there
was no sky, just a ceiling of smog. It was grey and brown, mottled with
cancerous streaks of black, from horizon to horizon. The lifeless sun clawed
helplessly through the fume to emerge as a hazy splat of red; heatless and
choked, as if drained by the effort it took to rise in the sky. Its height
indicated that it was around midday,
but the light was as dim as dusk.
Will looked at his
surroundings. He was in a smooth shallow valley with a river at the bottom. The
edges of the valley were lined by a pair of stone walls with buildings behind
them. He was about fifty yards or so from the river and so walked closer to
take a look. There was a dozen yards of cracked semi-solidified mud bordering
the river, indicating that it was a tidal river, or a river that has just
receded from a flood. The soil which displaced with the ease of sand under his
shoes gave way to the mud. The mud was thin, pure and clean; there were no
pieces wood, waterweed, insects or anything else mixed in with it. The water
itself was black and looked viscous, more like oil than water. It gave off a
foul stench, like sewage or chemicals, and it looked as lifeless as the sky.
The river was only about twenty feet across. He turned away from the river and
looked at the walls bordering the valley. They were a dozen or more feet high
and looked like they were made of stone. They ran parallel to each other and at
one point a few hundred yards along they both jutted out into two broken stumps
of masonry directly opposite each other, as if they were the remains of a
bridge that once crossed the river. There were tall buildings behind the walls
that looked strangely familiar to Will despite the unearthly setting. He walked
up the slope of the valley to get a closer look. There were no breaks in the
wall, but at odd intervals there were flights of stone steps leading up to the
top of it; Will approached one of them. For some reason the steps didn't quite
reach the ground and ended about five feet above it. Will had to clamber up
onto the bottom step before walking up the rest of them normally. When he
reached the top he had a far better view of his surroundings. He stood still
and looked around himself and recognized where he was. His heart was thumping
and his blood ran far colder than it would have from just the low air
temperature. He was standing on the Embankment of the River Thames in central London;
everything was so familiar, yet so horribly different. The river he'd seen was
the Thames itself, shrunk to a mere trickle, a fraction
of the size of its former flow. The walls bordering the valley had been the
walls which lined both sides of the river as it passed through the metropolis.
Around him were the enormous buildings that made up the vista of Westminster,
but they were all derelict. Ahead of him were the Houses of Parliament with Big
Ben towering over them, but the stone facade was crumbling and ruinous; the
clock faces were gone leaving gaping black holes. The statue of Boudicca had
been knocked off its pedestal and lay shattered on the ground. The stumps he'd
seen were the remains of Westminster Bridge...
Will opened his eyes feeling completely awake. He lay alone
in his bed at home, sunlight streaming in through the open window. Cool morning
air filled the bedroom. Lareen was not there and Will could hear Annabelle
chuckling and splashing in the bathroom as her mother bathed her. She must have
been careful not to wake him as she got up. He walked over to the window,
looked out at the garden and took a deep breath. The sun was shining and birds
twittered. Even right now, just after seven-thirty, it was getting warm.
Reality couldn't be more different from his dream. He frowned as he recalled
it. This was the fourth or fifth time he had had a dream like that. What did it
mean? Where did it come from? The crisp morning air put the dream out of his
mind as he walked to Radlett station and caught the train into London. I wonder what my codename is. Will
mused to himself. All spies have a codename, usually something completely
random, "Agent COWSLIP" for example. However this was never revealed
to the agent himself. He passed the time on the journey by trying to guess his
own, hoping it was something complimentary. He caught the Tube to Edgware
Road and walked to the embassy in Portsea
Place. He went straight to morning meets and then
to his office where Nora had a pot of tea ready for him. She had already opened
most of his post, being instructed to do so for all correspondence with a
Lancine government frank; however she always left anything unmarked alone. She
put the intact envelopes in Will's inbox. There was one in handwriting that
looked vaguely familiar although not recognizable. It had a Lancine stamp and
postmark, but its envelope was clearly bought privately.
Will opened it and
read. The sender's address and handwriting immediately identified them as his
paternal grandmother. Will frowned in curiosity; he was not very close to his
grandmother and they hardly ever exchanged correspondence. He began reading: Dear Wilfred, I know you and I don't often
communicate, but I badly need to speak to you, speak about a matter of enormous
urgency relating to your brother. He has become very closely associated with
Cassius Dewlove. I thought it was just a working relationship, but it's got far
worse than that. He needs our help; he needs YOUR help! Please contact me as
soon as possible. Lots of love. Grandma.
Will sighed and
folded the letter. "What do you want me to do about it, Grandma?" he
muttered to himself. He pulled out a piece of loose-leaf and began writing a
reply.
He left Lancombe Pond station and walked through the City.
He had agreed to meet with his grandmother at her house and felt some
trepidation. He had not seen Loyl Ursall since the New Year and even then he had
hardly spoken to her. It wasn't that he disliked his grandmother; he didn't. It
was just that they lacked the bond that she and Robin shared. He headed for her
house in Yewfield. He hadn't been there since he was a small child, but
remembered where it was; it hadn't changed much. She greeted him with forced
affection and made him tea. "Wilfred." she implored him. "Can
you help, please? Can you talk to him, make him see sense?"
"I'll
try." he replied after a pause.
She frowned.
"You sound unsure."
"Grandma...
it's just... I know how terrible Cassius is. However, I cannot force Robin to
do anything. If anybody could do something then maybe it would be father."
He stopped. He had to be very careful what he said from here. "Grandma, I
can't untangle the knot tied many years ago by father and mother. They lowered
the drawbridge and rolled out the red carpet for Cassius when Robin and I were
mere children, a man who openly abused Robin in front of us all. Robin is
totally alienated from father as a result. If father would apologize, make
restitution, show Robin a methodology that would prevent such a betrayal from
ever happening again; that would be far more influential on my brother than
anything I could say... Deep down, Robin really wants his father back."
Loyl sighed.
"Then could you speak to your father about that?"
He nodded.
She sighed.
"Thank you, Wilfred."
Francis Ursall was
delighted to see his elder son and greeted him warmly. He insisted on opening a
bottle of Scotch, a habit they had got into since Will had used the method to
extract information from him a few months ago. They had a cheery conversation;
however, his manner changed when Will raised his grandmother's concerns.
Francis frowned. "Why do you say that, Wilfred?"
"Robin needs
our help. He's getting too close to Cassius. Their friendship isn't...
natural."
"In what
way?"
"He hardly
ever leaves Cassius' side. He hardly makes a single move without Cassius'
approval..."
"Well isn't
that to be expected?" snapped Francis. "Robin works for Cassius. He
has been given a precious opportunity by Cassius in a very senior position at
Dewlove Associates."
"But Cassius
is only his boss. I don't spend every waking moment with Netts, do I? Sharing
meals, staying over..."
"Robin is not
you!" Francis looked away and pretended to rearrange the bottles on the
dresser, signalling that he was uncomfortable with the subject.
Will paused.
"It's not healthy behaviour for anybody."
"Cassius is
not anybody."
"I meant for
Robin."
Francis sighed.
"Wilfred, I am one hundred percent sure that everything with Robin and
Cassius is fine."
Will groaned.
"You always say that about everything! Could you please just drop the
mindless optimism and listen to me?"
Francis turned
back round. "If this was anybody other than Cass, you wouldn't care! You
just don't like Cass, don't you?"
"Why should
I? Why do you like him so much?"
"Because Cass
has been the closest and most supportive friend this family has ever had!"
Will chuckled
scornfully. "And how often has he visited you since mother kicked the
bucket?" The words were out of his mouth before he realized what a mistake
it was to utter them. He winced.
Will's father took
a step back and gasped. His cheeks reddened and his eyes bulged. "Do not
refer to your mother's death like that!"
Will pondered for
a moment whether to back down and apologize or double down; after all it was
too late. "Why not, father? That is the exact terminology she used when
she talked about your mother's
impending death, and she didn't wait till she was dead before doing so!"
This was true. Maartje Ursall's hostility for her mother-in-law was a palpable
force, almost a solid object. When in her presence Maartje was tight-lipped and
stern faced, but when alone with the rest of the family she was very vocal and
unabashed about her antipathy. For example, one day after a visit to her house,
Francis had expressed on the drive home how much he admired his mother's new
dining table. His wife responded grimly "I'm having that when Loyl kicks
the bucket." Nobody in the car answered her. Francis showed no discomfort
with what Maartje had just said concerning his mother; nor did he at any other
time, and she made many similar comments. It became a bit of a maxim of hers. A
hundred statements of intention for her began or ended with "...When Loyl
kicks the bucket..." She seemed to believe that Loyl's very existence was
somehow standing between her and some kind of future utopia. Will was
momentarily glad for Maartje's sake that the afterlife didn't exist. It would
torment his mother's soul for eternity that her hated mother-in-law had
outlived her.
"You ask too
much, Wilfred." said Francis. "You cannot expect your mother to live
her life according to average standards. She suff..."
"'She
suffered so much everyday'!" interrupted Will rolling his eyes. "I
know, father! We all know! Why..." He stopped. What was the point of
repeating a debate with his father that he had had before. He was tired of
wining debates with his father and his father just carrying on oblivious. Robin
gave up. It was obvious Francis was not going to help him. He felt a wave of
sadness as he looked at his father talking to him. Increasingly as time passed,
when in the company of his father, he felt a disturbing sense of non-presence.
It was as if his father's mind was really some kind of phonograph that just
repeated phrases mindlessly. Francis Ursall's eyes looked increasingly blank;
not dead and necrotic like Cassius Dewlove's, but functional and flat with no
depth behind them, like a cinema picture. Will realized this was not because
Francis had changed; he had not developed senility or schizophrenia. It was
Will who had changed. He used not to notice this sad absence of personality,
but now he did.
Will decided to
cut out the middle man and speak to his brother face-to-face. He knew from
their brief conversation at their father's Barony ceremony eighteen months
earlier that this wouldn't be easy. He had hardly seen Robin since then. He
called Dewlove Associates as soon as he arrived in London
and was told that Robin was still in the United
States. He was due to return home early the
following month. Later in the day he was walking home from Radlett station when
he saw a signal, a sandwich wrapper tied in a knot and shoved between the
upright struts of a bus stop shelter; not something anybody not in the know
would ever notice. Will checked it everyday until it became as much a part of
his daily routine as shaving. His rendezvous changed every few months and
currently it was a bench in Regents Park.
As always, he went there the following day at six
PM. It was a fine summer afternoon so Will decided to walk from the
Lancine embassy. The rendezvous was in the Inner
Circle where dozens of benches stood in file along
the pathways. His instructions were to place a blue handkerchief in his top
left pocket and choose a bench as close as possible to ornamental gardens at
the north arc of the Circle. Obviously he had to make sure he was alone on the
bench. The park was busy at that time of year and in that weather, and many
people walked to and fro past him. Will watched them carefully. He knew that eventually
Hargreaves would walk up and sit beside him. They would converse in a low
voice, sometimes changing the subject to something irrelevant if a passer-by
came close enough to eavesdrop; only this time it was not Hargreaves. Will
couldn't suppress a start of curiosity and alarm as a stranger came and sat
beside him, a thin young man about his own age with deep-set eyes and thick
black hair. "Comrade Ursall." he began.
Will didn't reply,
wondering if this was a trap. Was this a British agent come to try and expose
him?
The stranger
smiled, keeping his eyes straight ahead. "Well done, comrade; you are well
trained. Fear not. Hargreaves is... unavailable today, so I have come in his
place." The man had a different accent, German or Austrian.
"Who are
you?" stammered Will.
"My name
is... Otto."
Will grimaced
thinly, partly from relief and partly from amusement. He knew this was not the
man's real name.
What followed was
the kind of conversation Will had never imagined he would have with a
controller. Otto spoke for a long time about personal and irrelevant matters.
"My cousin runs the Odeon cinema chain; did you know that?... I live in
the new flats in Lawn Road?
Have you seen them? No? It's a very avant-garde building in Hampstead;
groundbreaking new architect..."
Will wondered if Otto
was psychologically analyzing him.
Eventually Otto
got to the point. "Comrade, we are interested in the experience you had in
that Berkshire village. We'd like you to find out
more."
Will chuckled. "You
mean the rubber doll?"
Otto paused.
"Yes please."
"Seriously?"
Otto raised his
eyebrows. "Just some loose ends we'd like to tie up."
"What do you
mean?" At once he realized he shouldn't have asked. Agents are not meant
to know everything that goes on in the organization they work for.
"Comrade..."
began Otto with a frown.
"I know! I
know! You can't tell me. Apologies, Comrade Otto."
Otto waved his
hand genially to dismiss the matter. "Ask around, find the right people.
Catch them when they are vulnerable; like you did with your father."
Will nodded. The
meeting ended after that and he went home. He wondered on the journey what on
earth that strange conversation was about. He once more pondered the
possibility that this was some kind of test. It struck him like a lightning
bolt of fear while he was on the train to Radlett; they may suspect he that had
been "turned". He bit his nails as that train of thought continued.
It all fitted into place. He'd even heard discussions about this at the spy
school, although it was not a part of the formal curriculum. Something he had
said or done had alerted his controllers and they now were afraid he was
secretly working for British intelligence. There were numerous methods of
exposing double agents and one of those was to use other agents to plant coded
or fake material for him to assimilate and see if he took the bait. Another was
to check the quality of the genuine information he was providing against
independent sources. One clue an agent might have that he was being scrutinized
in this way was that the nature of his handlers' requests suddenly changed. He
may be given crazy sounding instructions that appeared to serve no purpose.
What could a double agent expect if he were unmasked? Bolshevik
counterespionage was notoriously merciless to traitors. They would probably
kill him. Will sat back in his seat and breathed deeply, regaining control of
his nerves. He reminded himself that he was not a double agent. He was a loyal
servant of the Soviet Union, dedicated to the cause of
spreading socialism across the world. The best thing he could do was simply
cooperate with whatever trial his overlords had decided to inflict upon him
until he had proved himself innocent. By the time the train had pulled into
Radlett station his panic was over. He merely felt a frustration that during
this investigation he would be taken away from his main task, being a real spy.
He hoped this wouldn't take too long; and he also wondered what it was about
him that had rung alarm bells in Moscow.
Before he tucked his newspaper away in his briefcase he happened to glance at a
Signum ad: Look to the east, but not too
far east. Signum. WYAGIGA.
Will sighed as he saw his father's writing on the envelope.
He opened it. Dear Wilfred. Could you
please respond as soon as possible? Mabel and I are very worried. We both found
your behaviour last week upsetting and baffling. Mabel felt very intimidated by
you. You perhaps don't realize why you said what you did... Francis Ursall
waffled on for a few more sentences. The previous week Wilfred had walked out
of Mabel's house in West Bridgford after an explosive
argument. Francis had invited his son to join him for dinner with Mabel. It had
started pleasantly enough. They made casual conversation with each other and
two of Mabel's sisters who had also turned up, but it didn't take long for
tensions to rise. Francis spotted it long before anybody else did. He had a
hair trigger warning sense of anything that might rock the boat, throw
normality off its groove and generate "hassle". He stiffened up and
started interjecting obtrusively into people's conversations. He regularly did
this, appointing himself an informal chairman or moderator in any social
situation. If the smooth train of interaction even threatened to drift off the
tracks into uncomfortable subjects he would blurt out "Let's not talk
about that now please!" raising his hands sideways in his typical
pacifying gesture. Francis was a man addicted to the status quo. Within it he
found comfort and stability. Maintaining it was his only goal. He prioritized
it even above the life and safety of himself and his family. Will recalled the
incident at his grandparents' home with the faulty boiler. If somebody in a
social situation handed Francis a bottle labelled "poison" he would drink
it eagerly just to prove that "everything is a hundred percent fine!"
Will also realized soon after meeting Mabel that his father had not done what
Will had predicted. Will had assumed Francis would find some unspoken
liberation with his wife's death, but he had just gone out and searched for
another woman as domineering and controlling as Maartje Ursall. Although the
nature of Mabel and Francis' relationship was uncertain to all but themselves,
they acted like a romantic couple. Maybe it was another part of the
psychopathology epidemic within the bourgeoisie, but Will realized that the
promise of being bossed around by a woman was the very thing that attracted
Francis to Mabel. It was a huge turn-on.
The problems began
when Mabel started talking enthusiastically about a book she had recently read,
Pan-Europa by the Austrian aristocrat
Richard von Coudenhove-Kalergi. "I've got the first English
translation." she bubbled. "It's amazing! It proposes that Europe
should no longer consist of separate countries, warring and competing. Instead
we should become a political federation, like the United
States."
"How likely
is that to happen?" asked her older sister.
"It will take
a few decades, Marge; but one day it will happen. It will probably be called
the 'European Union'. Imagine how powerful and prosperous such an empire would
be."
If Will had been
in a position to speak sincerely he could have said a lot about the benefits of
such integration for the purposes of the socialist revolution, but he knew he
had to play the part of the little Englander. "I think that sounds awful,
Mabel." he put in. "It will probably turn into some kind of
dictatorship, offering no freedom of choice to its citizens and will put their
culture at risk. If there were ever a referendum allowing us the choice to
remain within or leave such a regime I would vote leave."
Mabel turned to
Will with a savage scowl. She bared her teeth and her close-set eyes gleamed so
much with irritation that they seemed to turn into a single beam, a lighthouse
of primitive rage. "What would you know!?... You've never run a business,
Wilfred!"
"So what
would you say to somebody who had run a business and agreed with me?"
"I doubt if
that would happen." Mabel replied.
"Well then you
have an unfalsifiable hypothesis, which is a fallacy. All I have to do is
produce one person on my side who is qualified to comment, according to your
standards, and you are proved wrong. You also made an ad hominem attack which
is another fallacy..."
Mabel interrupted with a screeching
proclamation. "Anybody who would vote to leave the European Union is
stupid!"
Francis Ursall did
not even pause for a second before interjecting: "Let's talk about the
play we went to see on Saturday..."
As his father
droned on, Will was burning inside. The sheer arrogance and injustice of
Mabel's attitude cut him like a blade. She had said absolutely nothing to
refute Will's points at all. She had begun by discrediting him personally and
then called him stupid; and what was worse was that she seemed unaware or
uncaring about her own dishonesty. Will stood up. "Right... erm... I shall
wish you all a pleasant day and be off."
"What?"
breathed his father with a look of terrified dread. "You're leaving?"
"Yes, I'm
going to spend the rest of the day with people who don't insult me. Goodbye."
He walked towards the door without looking back. Nobody said a word and he did
not see Mabel's expression. Predictably his father chased after him.
"Wilfred! Wilfred! Please come back!"
"Why,
father?" Wilfred shrugged on his coat.
"Mabel was
just being forthright."
"Forthright?... No, she was being downright rude and you sat there
like a bloody sheep, as usual, and said nothing to support me."
"Please, Wilfred!
Don't leave! Come back!"
Will looked into
his father's eyes and saw genuine terror. Francis had literally fallen off a
social cliff. He sighed. "Father, I'll stay on one condition; you stand up
to Mabel. You defend me! We go in there together, right now, and you tell her
in front of me and everybody else that she was out of order with what she said
to me."
The look in
Francis' eyes at that moment filled Will with a mixture of incredible contempt
and pity. "Wilfred..." he whimpered. "I can't!"
"Then I'm going." Will replied
quietly and walked through the door.
"Christ!"
hissed Francis and he collapsed to his knees, burying his knuckles into his eye
sockets.
Before he boarded
the train home he stopped at the station post office and penned a letter to
Mabel. He was so filled with energetic fury that he felt he could do nothing
more until he had finished writing. Dear
Mabel. Obviously we disagree on the whole European integration issue... He
then explained his feelings at her reaction to his dissent. He scribbled on. Regarding your general conduct towards me,
it goes beyond just debating one issue. Nobody is a rubber ball that you can
just toss against a brick wall again and again in the reassurance that it will
not break; although some members of my family pretend that I am just such.
Maybe this has led you into the delusion that I am. This may explain your
disgraceful behaviour towards Robin at Christmas... This referred to the
moment when Will first began to have serious concerns regarding Mabel. Like
many families, the Ursalls had a tradition that they all got together on
Christmas Day for a celebration and the renewing or reinforcing of their
relationships. This usually took place in the Ursall house in East
Mansfield, and Will and his family attended as usual. The
atmosphere was tense from the offset. Loyl did not turn up; in fact she had
avoided all family gatherings for the last two years. Nobody seemed to mind and
Francis in particular was forcibly nonchalant about the absence of his mother.
Her replacement, if you could call him that, was Cassius Dewlove. He
accompanied Robin unannounced. Nobody objected, especially once he started
skilfully waving his charm around like he always did. Francis was overjoyed to
see Cassius, as he always was. He trotted around him all through the pre-dinner
drinks like a besotted dog. After the turkey and plum pudding they retired to
the lounge where the next part of the Ursall Christmas tradition took place,
the passing around of gifts. Over the course of the festive season a pile of
presents grew up under the Christmas tree, all wrapped neatly in coloured paper
and labelled with the recipient's and donor's names; glowing with enjoyment
potential. Then Francis sat in a corner and handed them out one at a time. He
kept a large rubbish sack beside him to collect the waste paper so that it
wouldn't be scattered on the floor, possibly being mixed up with the actual
gifts. It was a precious annual half-hour period where everybody smiled and
nobody frowned. Francis pulled an oblong parcel wrapped in red crepe paper. He
looked at the label. "From Robin to Mabel." He passed it over to his
friend.
Mabel opened it.
It was a book. "What's this?... Stories
from the Stars- an Anthology."
"It's a
series of tales about adventures in space." explained Robin.
Mabel flicked
through it for a few seconds. Then she scowled with affront. "Oh, no thank
you!" She tossed it onto the coffee table. Nobody flinched. Francis
remained smiling; it was as if nothing happened. Robin also showed no offence;
he and Dewlove swapped glances, giving each other half smiles.
Will remained
outwardly composed, but inside he was infuriated and horrified. He kept his
emotions in check with great difficulty. Lareen was the only one who spotted
his inner pain and put her hand over his. After the relatives and close friends
had started to disperse to their homes or hotels, Will got the chance to speak to
his father alone. Francis was slightly drunk and had stepped out into the back
garden for a breath of fresh air and a cigar. Will followed him and unloaded. His
father retorted "Wilfred, why is this a problem? Mabel was just being
forthright. She didn't want the present and said so."
"No, she
tossed it onto the table as if it were a tray of shit! She did it in a very
insulting manner and she did it in front of everybody in the family! How dare
she!?... HOW DARE SHE!?"
Francis blushed.
"Don't swear in this house please, Wilfred!"
"Since when
has it been acceptable to behave like that? We both know that if Robin or I had
done that to her you would have been mortified! The Christmas party is supposed
to be a happy time of family intimacy and Mabel has violated that! And your
only response is to try and normalize it!"
His father hissed
through his teeth. "I think you need to show a little bit more tolerance,
Wilfred. You may not be aware, but Mabel's husband used to mistreat her badly
and..."
Wilfred groaned.
"And don't tell me! She had a bad upbringing too!"
"Life with
other people is not all sweetness and sunshine, you know, Wilfred. And you are
the only one complaining here. Robin didn't seem to mind at all, did he?"
"That's
because he's been brainwashed by Dewlove!" shouted Will.
"Do not
accuse Cassius like that!..."
He had left after
that, strutting away and seething in frustration. That had been over six months
ago. The quarrel in West Bridgford was last week. He
read the letter again and then folded it back into his envelope. He went to his
study and began to attempt a reply. ...Father,
why will you not simply admit that this family keeps two sets of books? Robin
and I are the silent generation; we are not permitted to speak. I never heard
you tell mother when she fell out with Briggs "Briggs found your behaviour
upsetting and baffling. He feels very intimidated by you." No! It's only
bad when Robin and I do it! We are always the bad guys in every situation like
this. With mother or the Dutch family their upset was always endorsed and taken
seriously; it used to be the central issue of the entire family until it was
resolved. You have never explained to us why this double standard exists,
never!... Will put his own letter in an envelope and opened his desk drawer
to find a stamp. As he posted the letter he felt an almost overwhelming sense
of relief. The previous six days had been very unpleasant. Being apart from
Francis, incommunicado, had been mental torture. He hadn't expected that. The
reason was obvious, but it still surprised him. Will still cared very much for
his father; but his feelings were different from what they used to be. He felt
almost protective towards Francis, as if it were now his job to take care of
him.
Will was very
relieved to receive another letter from his father two days later that was
reconciliatory in tone. Francis made it clear that he wanted badly to maintain
his relationship with his son aside from "your break with Mabel". Will
wondered what he meant until he looked at a second letter in the same post from
Mabel. Its tone was very different: Wilfred,
I will no longer be visiting your home or your family home in East Mansfield whenever you or your family are present.
You are not welcome in my home... She went on expressing her affront and
indignation for a few more sentences. She even accused him of threatening her,
which he had not done. Will shrugged as he read, but was surprised. He knew
Mabel would be unhappy with his walkout the previous week, but he had not
expected the ferocity of her reaction. She also showed a complete lack of
introspection. It did not occur to her to question her own role in this
conflict. All she understood was that Will had been hostile to her, she was on
the side of the good and he was on the side of the bad. It was a dismayingly
simplistic and egotistical way to interpret the incident. She was about forty-five
years old, like Francis, but her letter reminded him of a scorned teenage girl.
Will felt a huge amount of relief. He had reconnected with his father and had
not backed down to Mabel. He was determined not to apologize to her. He knew he
had done nothing to feel ashamed of and now that he had released the anger he
had been bottling up for half a year, a surge of liberation flowed though him.
He patted Annabelle on the head and smiled to himself. He looked down at her as
she ate her breakfast rusks and then over to his wife. He was free and
empowered.
In September 1923 Will was recalled to Lancombe Pond for a week,
for a training session and appraisal. One day, while he had an afternoon off,
he decided spontaneously to pay a visit to his grandmother. This was not
something he ever planned or contemplated before. The reason why, he surmised,
was that his partisan position on the family political landscape had shifted
since his clash with Mabel. He was now more on Loyl's side than he had been
previously. This same process had also brought him closer to Robin. The two brothers
had even met once during the last two months and had exchanged letters. After
some contemplation he decided not to do what his grandmother had asked. He had
already questioned Robin about his friendship with Cassius Dewlove and it had
been a waste of effort. The only hope for his brother, as it was for the entire
bourgeoisie suffering from their self-generated debauchery, was the revolution.
Only socialism could save him now. He entered Loyl Ursall's street and
approached her front door. He rapped the door knocker and waited. There was a
long silence and then he heard somebody moving around inside. He expected the
door to open, but it didn't. This was strange. His grandmother's home was
small; it shouldn't take long for her to get to the door. He frowned and
knocked again. After another few seconds he called out. "Grandma?...
Grandma, are you there?"
The latch clicked
and the door opened slightly. Loyl's face peeped through. "Wilfred... What
do you want?" She was almost whispering.
He had never heard
her speak like that. "Er... I was just passing and wondered if you were
in?... To be honest, I sometimes feel you're the only real contact I have with
this family."
She paused and
then opened the door with a sigh. "I'm sorry, Wilfred, I'm about to go
out... But do come in."
Will entered the
property and saw two large leather suitcases placed on the floor of the lounge.
Loyl was dressed for travel, with thick stockings under her knee-length woollen
skirt and a cardigan. A coat was draped over one of the suitcases. "Are
you going out for a long time?"
"I'm... er...
going for a little holiday in Skegness; just a few days." She avoided his
gaze.
Will noticed an
oblong mark on the far wall showing where a picture frame had once hung. He
recalled that it was a photograph of her parents, his great-grandparents, Jesse
and Freda Jerkson. She treasured it enormously. He pointed at it.
"Grandma... are you taking that with you on holiday?"
She looked at the
wall and blushed. "Erm... no, Wilfred. The frame cracked so I've taken it
to Cartwright's to get it fixed." There was a long silence. "Wilfred,
could you excuse me. I have to go in a minute and need to get ready."
"Of course.
Goodbye, Grandma. Have a good trip."
"Goodbye
Wilfred. Thank you." She slammed the door urgently behind him as he left.
As he walked away down the road in Yewfield he saw a tall white-haired man
approaching on the opposite pavement. This street did not have a high volume of
traffic because it was a cul-de-sac in a residential area. Nobody entered it
except for the purposes of access. The man was walking quickly and with a
focused gaze. He appeared not to notice Will. He was carrying a large suitcase
and wore a rucksack as if heading off on holiday. Will stopped as he realized
the man looked familiar. He crouched behind a parked car to watch the man
covertly. Robin used to have a friend who looked very like the man walking up
the street, although Will could not remember his name. He was a Dutchman who
worked at the hospital in Nottingham and he had been at
his mother's funeral in 1919. The man stopped at Loyl's house and knocked on
the door. Will gasped as the door opened and the man entered immediately, as if
his grandmother knew him and had been expecting him. He heard the click as the
door shut. Will turned and kept walking. He shrugged; her life was her own
business. However, he vacillated between amusement and shock at the thought
that his seventy-three year old grandmother might be about to indulge in a dirty
weekend. He giggled to himself.
Will left his home at 7.45 AM
and walked to Radlett station. He stood on the packed commuter train all the
way to Kings Cross and then stopped at a cafe on Tottenham Court Road for a cup
of tea. Before he stood up to pay and leave he placed two teaspoons in the used
cup. He didn't know who was watching him, but he knew somebody was. The signal
worked every time and sure enough at 3.15 PM
Hargreaves showed up at the rendezvous, ten minutes after Will; at the moment
it was in a garden square in Pentonville. It was a warm October afternoon and dry
leaves rustled like shingle in the light breeze. "I managed to get it out
of Eveslowe last night." began Will as soon as his controller had sat on
the bench. "He was pretty squiffed at the In and Out. He says it's all
true, but they're not from Mars."
"Where are
they from?"
"Nobody
knows, or at least Eveslowe doesn't." The whole process had taken about a
month. Hargreaves gave him additional coaching to select the perfect target.
Somebody quite old and senior with military connections, a few personal secrets
and as many vices as possible. Col. David Eveslowe had recently retired from
the War Ministry and regularly indulged in more than his fair share of brandy
and cigars. He had spent twenty years in India
before the War and had commanded the 8th Pathan Rangers in Rawalpindi.
Will's social influence made it easy for him to be signed in at the Naval and
Military Club, the "In and Out", an exclusive urban retreat in St
James' Square. Its members included such luminaries as the Prince of Wales and
the Duke of Kent. He spotted Eveslowe at the bar and asked him for a light,
making the excuse that he had lost his matches. The Colonel responded in a very
friendly manner. He was a cheery and genial gentleman with a sloping back and
wide girth. He had a huge moustache, wrinkled throat and Sandhurst
accent to match; a portrait of a typical British imperialist. He was wearing
his well laundered dining jacket, although it showed the wear and tear of hard
socializing. A Persian rug of medal ribbons adorned his breast. Within an hour
of their conversation Will was fairly convinced the old man was a homosexual;
another important qualification for the list. Will told Hargreaves there was no
way he'd be able to seduce Eveslowe, and the handler laughed and reassured him
that would not be necessary. Instead all he had to do was be friendly and happy
to listen for a long time to the old army officer's tipsy ramblings. Within a
few days they were de facto friends
and Will dropped in to see him after that about three times a week. They told
each other all kinds of stories about each other over drinks and dinner. The
Colonel was clearly enjoying the attention this handsome young man was giving
him and was eager to maintain it. After about three weeks Will spotted an
article in The Times while he was
reading it on one of the leather settees; it was about a new observatory being
constructed in Yorkshire. This was his opportunity.
"Dave, old boy." he said. "Take a look." He handed his
contact the paper.
"Ah!"
Eveslowe puffed on a Havana as he
read. "Outer space eh! The endless enduring mystery of it. Stars and planets.
What a fascinating fancy, Wilfred, my boy."
"It's a pity
we don't have a telescope here, Dave."
"Perhaps we
should get one installed in the garden. I'll suggest it to Patel... How many
stars can we actually see in the middle of the Smoke anyway? Let's go and have
a look." He clambered shakily to his feet. It was now 9 PM and he had polished off half a bottle of Remy Martin.
He and Will walked out into the empty courtyard. He looked up. "Bah! Too
much streetlight and smog."
"What a
pity." sighed Will in the same tone. "I love the sight of a clear night's
sky, cloudless and pure."
"I know,
Wilfred, I know. In India
there was no shortage of such spectacles." He became wistful. "I wish
you could see it, Wilfred. Night patrol in the Northwest Frontier, up in the
Khyber Pakhtunkhwa mountains at the dead of night. No sound except our feet
trudging through the ankle-deep snow, a million stars in the cloudless sky, the
thinnest of crescent moons, clear as a sickle."
Now was the moment
for his next move. "You should be a poet!... I say, Dave... Do you suppose
there's anybody out there, looking back at us?"
He laughed.
"Oh certainly, old boy!"
"Certainly?
You have no doubt?"
Eveslowe looked at
him in a fatherly way without desire. "None whatsoever, dear boy. You
see... No, no, no; I really can't tell you."
Will put on his
best frown of curiosity. "What do you mean, Dave?"
He hissed through
his teeth in an intoxicated expression of awkwardness. "We have proof,
Wilfred."
"Does this
have anything to do with what's going on at Peasemore?"
The old man gasped
and took a step back. His face flushed as if Will had struck him.
"Wilfred... where did you hear about that?"
He shrugged
modestly. "Word gets around."
Hargreaves watched
a starling pecking the path near his feet. "And did he tell you
more?"
"Yes."
Will related some more details for a few minutes.
The controller
suddenly stood up. "Let's take a walk, Comrade Ursall."
"What?"
Will stood up beside him. This had never happened before. Contact with his
controllers had always been stationary and in a public yet secluded place. In
fact at the spy school he'd been warned about movement, that it could look
suspicious in the wrong circumstances. "Comrade Hargreaves. I think we're
supposed to remain seated during our conversations..."
"This is an
unusual occasion, Comrade Ursall." Hargreaves lifted his right arm in
which he carried a copy of The Times.
It was draped over his wrist and was arranged in such a way that only Will
could see the pistol clasped in his hand.
"No!"
yelled Will and jerked back.
"Keep your
voice down and stand still!" commanded Hargreaves in a voice only slightly
raised. "Now, walk towards the St John Street
gate very slowly. I'll be just a few feet behind you. Do not run or make any
sudden moves; alright, Comrade?"
Will nodded. He
was panting hard and his legs felt weak, but he did what his controller said. A
car, a non-descript Morris, was waiting by the gate with two men in the front
seats. Its rain cover was up. "Get in." said Hargreaves. The agent
and controller sat beside each other in the back seat. Will was about to look
at the two other occupants when a hood was roughly tugged over his head totally
obscuring his vision. His heavy breathing became more laboured through its
textile. "Calm down, Comrade Ursall. You are in no danger."
"Having a gun
pointed at me is not exactly safe!" protested Will.
"Sorry about
that, comrade; it was necessary." The car drove for about half an hour
although, of course, Will could not be completely sure of the time. At one
point Will heard the ambient sounds that leaked in change in a way that gave
him the impression they were crossing one of the bridges over the river. He
hoped they were heading for the Soviet embassy in Kensington, in which case
this would be a happier situation. On the other hand this action against him by
his handlers could be something less official and therefore probably more
violent. This was exactly what Will had feared. They had tested him and he'd
failed. The worst part was that he knew he was innocent. Could he persuade
them? He was afraid they would torture him, in which case he knew that he would
eventually say anything they wanted him to. Or maybe they had already made up
their minds, in which case...
"Alright,
we're there." said a new voice from the front seat. The car turned a few
times and then stopped. "Let me guide you, comrade." said Hargreaves.
Will got out of the car with the blindfold still over his head and walked with
Hargreaves holding his arm. "There are four steps up here... That's
it." A few yards further the handler ordered him to sit.
Hargreaves pulled
off the hood and all Will's senses were assailed at once. He was sitting at a
small wooden table in an office of some kind. There was a cardboard calendar on
the wall, a filing cabinet and a pair of desks facing each other. The wall was
painted dark brown and the windows looked out onto a street with a red brick
wall opposite, although Will couldn't make out many of the details until his
eyes had adjusted to the glare. Sitting around the table scrutinizing him were
Hargreaves, Otto and a third man whom Will had never before seen. Hargreaves
had laid the pistol on the table, but his hand rested on it; a silent warning
to Will not to try and flee. Despite the nature of his presence there, the men
were all smiling. "Would anybody like some vodka?" asked the
stranger. He had a Russian accent and a big bald military look to him.
"Four glasses
please, Yuri." replied Otto. After the drinks were all poured he raised
his. "Vashe zdorov'ye."
"An kkomyt." Will replied and took a
sip. He felt calmer now and slightly rebellious. He had learned enough at spy
school to realize now that these men would not do him any grievous bodily harm,
at least not at this meeting. A round of vodka meant a little chat, not a
beating or shooting. They wanted information from him and were hoping to make
him feel relaxed and uninhibited.
"So... er...
Comrade Ursall." began Hargreaves. "I must apologize for the rather
brusque form of this invitation, but we need to speak to you urgently. Could
you please tell these comrades exactly what Col. Eveslowe told you last
night?" He produced a notebook and pencil from his pocket.
Will took another
sip. The vodka was quite high quality, Will thought; way better than the paint
stripper dished out to the Red Army. "He told me that the Peasemore
laboratory is being run by a contractor, Nash and Wallace."
"We know all
that already." interrupted Hargreaves.
"I'm
answering your question." responded Will in a cold voice. The vodka had
already given him some confidence. "As I was saying, N and W are the
owners and operators of the lab in Peasemore. It was established by the War
Ministry after the invasion of Lancombe Pond and the retrieval of artefacts
from..." His speech ground to a halt.
"Go on."
said Otto.
"Artefacts
from an extraterrestrial civilization."
His three captors
exchanged expressionless looks.
"This confirms
the information gained from Francis Ursall, my father; the information I have
already given you which you did not believe." He paused to glare at them.
"A... spacecraft crashed in Lancombe Pond in 1918. Eveslowe heard about it
in a meeting at the War Ministry a couple of years ago. Nobody knows where it's
from. The same goes for the biological entity also discovered at the crash
site. What Eveslowe then told me was that this was only one of several similar
incidents that have taken place over the last several dozen years in the UK.
He also knows of one abroad, in the United
States."
"What did he
say?" asked Otto urgently.
"That there
was a crash in 1897 at a place called Aurora.
He thinks it's in Texas. In this
case the craft was captured and is in a vault at the Smithsonian Institution in
Washington DC
to this day. The dead pilot was buried in the local cemetery."
The men sat back.
"What!?" exclaimed Hargreaves. "The cemetery in Texas?"
"That's what
he said. The villagers gave the creature a funeral. It's there right now."
"Did Col.
Eveslowe tell you where he heard this information?"
"From a
friend of his who was the US Army attaché during the War."
Hargreaves was
scribbling in his notebook. "What other incidents does he know
about?"
"He appears
to have less information about the others. He knows of them primarily through
rumours circulating in the Ministry. He mentioned that one happened in Ireland
around the turn of the century. He doesn't know many details, except it sounds
similar to the one in the Pond."
The men made a
silent confab again. Otto cleared his throat. "Tell me, why have we not
heard about all this in the newspapers?"
Will shrugged.
"You'll have to address that question to a newspaper editor, Mr
Otto." There was a long pause. The bald man called "Yuri" had
not spoken since he'd served the drinks. He stared hard at Will. Will broke the
silence: "Comrades, my wife will be wondering where I am by now. We are
due at a bridge circle by six o'clock."
"We won't
detain you any longer than necessary." smiled Hargreaves. "We just
ask you for your understanding... You see, what you have been telling us cannot
be true, yet we have not detected any disinformation attempts independently of
your contribution. We can think of no theoretical purpose for such a thing. So,
obviously we are going to feel suspicious of you."
"I can't
comment on what makes you feel suspicious, Comrade Hargreaves. You alone are
qualified thereof. I have done my job. I have delivered to you the intelligence
I have discovered. I don't know whether or not this intelligence is true or
false, only that it exists. I am not lying to you, I swear."
They all looked at
him darkly.
"Do you
really think I am making all this up? Why would I do that?"
"A different
loyalty?" answered Otto with a half smile.
Will felt a chill.
Those words were a stock phrase in the intelligence community for being a
double agent. "Comrades... I am not a traitor!" They continued to sit
and stare. "I fought in the civil war!" He started speaking in
Russian. "I left Oxford for
that! I gave everything and risked everything for the revolution!"
After another long
pause Otto said: "Alright, Comrade Ursall. We have no further questions at
this point."
Will was
blindfolded again and led back to the car. This time the drive was much shorter.
They took off the hood and let him out of the car on an industrial road with
warehouses on either side. When he saw the railway station in front of him Will
realized he was in Stratford, which meant the safe house he was frogmarched to
must be somewhere in the borough or not far beyond. He caught the train home.
The doorbell rang the following Saturday morning just after 9 AM. Will was still in his dressing gown with a
slice of toast in his hand as he walked up to the door. Through the frosted
glass of the door window he recognized a police uniform. He froze; not in fear,
he knew Lareen and Annabelle were safe because they were in the kitchen a dozen
feet from him. Had somebody he knew been involved in an accident? What if...?
He almost yelped aloud. Was it something to do with his abduction a few days
ago? He continued forward and opened the door. A single officer stood in front
of him in a black tunic and custodian helmet. "Good morning, sir. Sorry to
bother you. PC Blaine, Herts constabulary. We've been asked by the Lancombe
Pond force to help investigate a missing person."
"Who?"
The man looked at
a notebook. "A Mrs Loyl Ursall. Do you know her, sir?"
"Yes of
course. She's my grandmother?... You'd better come in."
"Thank you,
sir." The policeman took off his helmet as he entered the vestibule of the
house. "Mrs Ursall was reported missing two weeks ago by some friends
after she had failed to attend a Spiritualist meeting several times in a row. Inquiries
at her home indicated that she had been absent for several weeks before that."
Will told the
officer about his recent visit to his grandmother's house.
The policeman
scrawled in his notebook with a short and solid graphite pencil. "I see,
so she had packed her bags."
"She told me
she was going to Skegness for a few days... Come to think of it, she was acting
strangely."
"And this
gentleman you saw her with; do you know anything about him?"
"No, except
he worked at the main hospital in Nottingham and that my
brother was very close to him. You'd be better off talking to him."
"Oh, we will,
sir." replied the man. "Does the name 'Dirk Walsander' mean anything
to you?"
"No, except
it sounds Dutch. That might have been his name, if I recall."
"We believe
that is the name of the man who went too see your granny, sir."
"So,
presumably if he and my grandmother went on holiday together you'll find them
together now."
"A very long
holiday though, isn't it, sir?"
Will nodded.
"It may
interest you to know that we have it on good authority that Mrs Ursall and Mr
Walsander were seen boarding a train together in London
for Harwich."
"Well... they
may have been going there to catch the ferry. My family have done that many
times because of our Dutch relations. My mother was..."
"They were
indeed, sir. In fact we had a call from the British embassy in the Netherlands
confirming that both of them passed through customs at the Hook of
Holland on September the 20th... Do you know of any reason why
your grandmother might abscond abroad with a strange man without telling her
family?"
Will shook his
head.
"Very well,
sir. You've been very helpful. Thank you and have a nice day."
After the
policeman had left Will called Francis Ursall. "Father, grandma has
disappeared!"
"Has she?...
Oh."
"What!? Is
that all you can say?"
"Well, what
else am I meant to say, Wilfred? You know your grandmother does what she likes
when she likes. She will come home when she feels like it. We can talk about it
then... At least while she's away she won't be meddling with your brother's
head for a while."
"Well, could
you please just be cooperative with the 'DF when they come to question
you?"
"Of course I
will, Wilfred; but I am a busy man..."
Will put down the
receiver with a snort of derision. Lareen came up to him with an open copy of
yesterday's Evening Standard in her
hand. "Will, I couldn't help overhearing. Did you say your grandma's
friend is called Dirk Walsander?"
"Apparently."
He shrugged.
"Look at
this." She handed him the paper and pointed to an article. Will read it: News update from the Binnenhof. There is a
new representative in the Second Chamber of State in the Netherlands following the recent by-election. The 19th
district is now managed by a newcomer, Mr Dirk Walsander of The Hague. Mr Walsander has an unusual background for
a politician. He has lived in Britain for a number of years. Previously employed
as a hospital porter in Nottingham with no formal qualifications. The hospital
was not available for comment. His New Freedom Party was only founded three
years ago by Frans van Timzen. Mr Walsander was elected leader only two weeks
previously. This barely complies with normal practice yet the Dutch
constitution... "Goodness me!"
"Maybe it's not
him. Is his name common in Holland?"
"Fairly, but
look: 'employed as a hospital porter in Nottingham'.
That narrows it down quite a bit."
"And so
that's where we'll find your grandma, I suppose."
"Well, I hope
so."
See here for Chapter 9: (coming soon).
