The Facility, page 3
He offers her gum.
‘Look here,’ she says, ignoring his outstretched hand and reaching for one of the printouts. She traces the text with her fingertip as she quotes him back to him. ‘“The police are complicit. Sir Andrew Burns, the Metropolitan Police Commissioner, has long argued for an extension of police powers. Fourteen days was not enough, nor twenty-eight, nor forty-two, nor even the ninety days proposed – and rejected – in 2005. Now the police have been granted the de facto autonomy they campaigned for, and Burns finds himself invested with a concentration of powers not seen on this continent since the overthrow of the Nazi regime. The force that he commands is now the central cog in the machinations of a terrifying, countrywide security operation, involving not only the military and MI5, but also subcontracted and shadowy organisations whose true influence and agendas are not fully understood even by the men who help run them.”’
It sounds even better read aloud.
‘Those are your words, right?’
‘Pretty much,’ Tom says. He would have vetoed ‘shadowy’ if he had seen the subedited copy. He would have reminded Terry – and it was Terry, he would bet it was Terry – that grammar was his chief concern, not melodrama.
‘This is it,’ Julia says, waving the piece of paper in her hand. ‘This is exactly it. They’ve got my husband. Someone’s got my husband. The police won’t help me. They won’t tell me anything. They only admitted having him in custody when I confronted them with the video a neighbour took.’
‘You have a video?’
‘She was filming the teenagers outside her house. She was convinced they were smoking crack.’
‘Jesus. Where do you live?’
‘What? Ealing. We live in Ealing. And they weren’t smoking crack, they were smoking roll-ups. But that’s not the point.’
‘No,’ says Tom. ‘Sorry. But you have evidence. The film, I mean. Surely if you show someone that—’
‘Mr Clarke,’ Julia says. ‘This article you wrote.’ She angles her head. ‘Did you read it?’
‘What? Yes. Of course. I mean . . .’
Julia waves a hand. ‘Look. My husband was arrested. No one will tell me why. Because of these laws, these laws you wrote about –’ and again she brandishes one of the printouts ‘ – they don’t have to.’
‘No,’ says Tom. ‘I guess not.’
‘Which isn’t right. Is it? It’s not right.’
Julia is leaning towards him, imploring him with her eyes. Tom looks across from her towards the door. He wishes he had left it open.
‘Did you talk to the US embassy? I mean, you’re American, right? Is your husband—’
‘He’s British. English. I was born in Boston but I took dual nationality when Arthur and I got married. Not that my US passport seems to count for much. My husband, apparently, is not the American government’s problem.’
‘What about . . . I don’t know. There are organisations, aren’t there? There are people who can help with this sort of thing.’
‘Which organisations?’ Julia straightens her shoulders. ‘Organisations like this one?’ She slides the article on the banned civil-rights group towards him.
‘Not that one, obviously. But there are plenty of others.’
‘Not any more. Not after Drax. And those that are left are inundated. I’ve tried them. Some say they can’t help. Some say they won’t.’
The packet of chewing gum is still in Tom’s hand. He tears off a section of the wrapper and crumples it into a ball. ‘Your husband,’ he says. ‘You don’t know the details but you must have an idea about why he was arrested. I mean, I assume he was into something.’
‘Into something? What the hell does that mean?’
‘Nothing. I’m just asking. I have to ask.’
‘This is anti-terrorism legislation, Mr Clarke. These are laws the police are supposed to be using to stop fundamentalists blowing up another power station.’
‘I know. I realise that. All I’m asking—’
‘My husband is not a terrorist, Mr Clarke. Whatever he’s into, I can assure you it’s not terrorism. He’s a dentist, for Christ’s sake!’
Tom raises his hands. ‘Okay,’ he says. ‘Okay. So you’ve been to the police. Right? And you’ve spoken to Witness and Front Line and all the others. What about a lawyer? Have you spoken to a lawyer?’
‘No, Mr Clarke. It never occurred to me to talk to a lawyer.’
‘And?’ Tom says, conceding the sarcasm. ‘What did they say?’
‘Forgive my tone, Mr Clarke, but what do you think they said? What do you think they all said?’
Tom sets the gum and the balled-up paper on the table and rubs one damp palm against the other. ‘The thing is,’ he says, ‘that’s sort of the point. Isn’t it? None of these people – these people who know the law, who work with the law – feel they can help you. I’m a journalist. I’m just a journalist.’
Julia leans forwards once more. ‘You have contacts. Don’t you?’
‘Of course but—’
‘But what?’
‘But they’re contacts. That’s all they are. They’re people who might slip me a lead or an anonymous quote. They’re not friends.’
‘You could call them though. You could ask them.’
‘Ask them what? Whether they’ve seen your husband?’
‘Something like that.’
Tom scoffs.
‘What’s so ridiculous? All I’m asking is that you do what you tell others to. Listen,’ she says and she reaches again for the words Tom wrote. ‘“National polls, the government tells us, show overwhelming public support for its Unified Security Act. The public, though, and not for the first time in recent years, has been grossly misled. The debate has been undermined; a ballot denied. For those committed to the ideals – nay, rights – this government is so willing to sacrifice, there are other ways—”’
‘Please,’ says Tom, taking the page from her. Julia, though, continues from memory.
‘“—there are other ways in which we can act. March: in the capital if you can, in your home town at the very least. Speak out: in defence of those who have their freedom of speech denied. Fight: because if you do not, you must ask yourself – why should anyone else?”’
Julia’s eyes meet his and though he tries to hold her gaze he cannot.
‘I just work here,’ he says. He is almost begging, he realises. ‘I get up and I come to work and I write. Inevitably, I suppose, there’s a certain amount of . . .’ He rolls his fingers in the air.
‘Of what?’
‘Hyperbole,’ Tom says. ‘There’s a certain amount of hyperbole.’
‘Hyperbole,’ Julia repeats and she grins. She somehow makes the grin look like a grimace.
‘This is the Libertarian. Our readers have certain expectations. Look,’ Tom adds, holding off her response with an open palm. ‘Maybe if you spoke to the editor. I mean, she’s busy but you never know. I might be able to set something up.’
‘What would be the point? To convince her to write another story?’
Tom gives a dry laugh. ‘That’s kind of what we do here.’
‘Forgive me, Mr Clarke, but really I was hoping for more than a paragraph or two that in an hour would be buried in your archive.’
Tom spreads his hands. Julia watches him with an expression of contempt. There is silence for a moment and then she stands.
‘You look older,’ she says. She starts to gather her things. ‘In your photograph, you look older.’ She shuts her bag, leaving the clippings on the table. Tom glances at his mugshot. When he looks up again she is already at the door. ‘You look wiser too.’
No one speaks. They have been seated individually, in separate rows and away from the aisle, but it seems a needless precaution. The heads Arthur can see protruding from the seats around him do not turn; the pairs of eyes within range of his seem barely focused. He wonders, vaguely, whether his own expression is so blank but he does not reach any conclusion. His thoughts seem to glide. One moment he will fix on the knowledge that he is being taken somewhere, and his gaze will wander in search of some clue as to their destination. The next he will jolt as though from a trance, and be reminded by the stinging in his eyes that really he ought to blink.
He blinks.
In his periods of watchfulness there is not much to see. A seat-back fills the space ahead. It bears an advertisement, for National Express, promising care, convenience, comfort. The window to his right is shaded or painted or covered with something that admits a dim light but prevents Arthur from seeing out. It is scratched, though, at the corner, and Arthur can tell from his fissured view that it is raining; that they are on a narrow road and travelling at a steady speed; that they are nowhere that anyone will see them. Once in a while the cabin darkens further and there is the sound of overhanging branches clawing at the glass, like the fingers of something just as curious to see in as Arthur is to peer out.
On the coach the rows of seats are offset and across from him there are two fellow passengers more visible than any of the others. They are both men, Arthur thinks at first, but he is mistaken. The one in front, the younger one, is a girl. She might be twenty; she might be a teenager. Her hair has been hacked into an androgynous, careless cut. Her clothes are filthy and the side of her face that Arthur can see is scratched, bruised, swollen. She has barely opened her eyes.
The man, seated in the row behind, is older – fifty-something, sixty – and he looks awake though no more aware. He is dressed in a suit and shirt, no tie, and is unshaven but otherwise presentable. He stares at the advert in front of him and moves his lips, as though soundlessly reciting the words. Care, convenience, comfort. Care, convenience, comfort. He could be praying, Arthur supposes. The prayer and the recital might even have become joined.
He blinks.
The engine noise is a drone. The sound is so constant, so unvarying, that Arthur begins to think it might not be a sound at all but rather the absence of sound. The sound is like silence: this strikes him as funny. He smiles. The smile produces a tingle in his cheeks and along his jaw.
He blinks.
There were two of them, he remembers. They offered him muffins.
He blinks.
Afterwards he saw Julia. He saw Casper. They were all together, at the kitchen table and eating dinner. Or breakfast. There was a large jug of orange juice, sweating on to the tablecloth, so probably it was breakfast. They were not alone, though. There were two men, maybe three, talking at his shoulder, and though they were talking in whispers it was enough to distract him from what Julia was saying. He told the men to hush but he did not turn. He did not see their faces. He just heard their hissing voices and became irritated and Julia became irritated too but at him. She was gesturing for him to drink his orange juice. She seemed to want him to drink it from the jug. He refused. He said it tasted funny. And Casper was laughing, not at him but at something the men were doing, the men behind him who were still whispering and hissing in his ear. And he was saying, ignore them, Cas, just ignore them. If you ignore them they’ll go away.
He blinks.
He does not remember getting on the coach. How odd. He is on a coach and his hands are bound. He does not remember his hands being bound either. It is only now that he notices the plastic tie.
He blinks.
They offered him muffins. Right now, apart from the effort of chewing, he could eat a muffin. He thinks perhaps he would choose a chocolate one. He would not take a lemon one. The lemon ones, he suspects, would taste of Windolene.
He blinks.
He said, ignore them, Cas, just ignore them, but Casper kept laughing. He kept laughing.
He blinks.
The engine drones.
He blinks.
Care, convenience, comfort. Care, convenience, comfort.
He blinks.
He blinks.
He blinks.
There is a jolt and he opens his eyes. The engine is shifting gear. They are turning. Arthur checks through the crack of uncovered glass but there is just another narrow road, more rain, the same lack of people, of buildings, of trees now too. He sees grass and he sees mud, extending to a damp-sugar sky.
He looks across from him. The girl with the bruises continues to sleep. Her position is as it was: hands tucked between her skinny thighs, shoulders sagging, chin cushioned by a tight roll of skin. Arthur turns to the older man behind her, expecting him to be praying still, or sleeping like the girl, but when he looks the man is looking back at him.
And then he is not. He turns away. For a moment Arthur continues to stare but then he too returns his gaze to the seat-back in front of him. Care, convenience, comfort. The words overlap and intertwine. He glances again across the aisle but the man has his eyes shut now, as though he has long been dozing.
He should say something. Should he? He wonders what would happen if he were to say something. Whether he would be able to talk, first of all, and who would be listening if he did. Who would answer, and how.
They are turning again. This time when Arthur looks he sees a wall, low and crumbling. It guides them up an incline and round another corner and then falls behind. The road they join is quieter, smoother than the road they have left but possibly this seems so only because they are slowing. His view is blocked and they are in darkness for a second, two, and then there is light again and open space and Arthur imagines they have passed through an archway. The coach slows further, almost to walking pace, and from below there is the slow grind of tyres on gravel.
They stop.
For a moment the engine idles and the sound, as much felt as heard, is somehow reassuring. Arthur would like it to continue. He knows that when the engine cuts out someone will tell him to move. He is not sure he will be able to, for one thing, but most of all he does not want to. He wants just to sit. He wants the engine not to cut out. He wants just to sit but then the engine cuts out.
A door opens, up ahead. Arthur cannot see it but he hears the hiss. There is no extra light, though, until a curtain is drawn back and then there is. It is not a bright light but it is brighter than he has become used to and Arthur flinches. For the first time the presence of those around him is audible. There are groans, as one might expect from a roomful of sleepers who have been woken in the middle of the night. There is coughing, from several places at once, but most immediately from across the aisle. Arthur checks and it is the girl. She has her eyes closed but both hands across her mouth, as though she were trying to force a cough back inside. Arthur glances at the man behind her. It seems ridiculous but he is wary of once again meeting his eye. He is imprisoned, on a coach with blacked-out windows, his hands cuffed and his senses confounded, but meeting the eye of a stranger – a fellow captive but a stranger above all – would still feel awkward. The man is looking forwards, however: to the front of the coach and the drawn-back curtain. Arthur watches the man for a moment, then follows his gaze.
A figure has appeared in the aisle. Arthur assumes it is a man but it could just as well be a woman because all he can really see is a silhouette. It stands motionless, facing them or towards the front Arthur cannot tell. The figure moves and Arthur strains to see but then the overhead lights flick on and he is once again compelled to look away. When he looks back the figure is gone.
People are standing: in the row nearest to the curtain, the row behind, the row behind that. Tops of heads become shoulders and then torsos and soon everyone at the front of the coach, it seems, is on their feet and shuffling into the aisle. Arthur feels a surge of adrenalin as movement cascades towards him. Where are they all going? Why are they going, when Arthur has heard no instruction? It would be better to wait, wouldn’t it, because maybe they are not supposed to be moving, not yet. But then the woman in the seat in front of his rises, and the man in the suit across the aisle, and Arthur is standing before it occurs to him to worry again about whether he is able to. The girl, though. The girl remains seated. Her head is raised and her eyes are open – on one side of her face at least because on the bruised side her eye is a slit – but she does not follow the others. She barely seems to notice the others. Arthur is in the aisle now and inching forwards and as he passes the girl he hesitates. He opens his mouth. Get up, he should say. Excuse me. Hey. As he would if he were on the tube, at Ealing Broadway, when the train is emptying and the guard is already making his way along the platform and turning out the carriage lights. But there is pressure from behind, breath on his neck from the man in the suit, and Arthur moves on without saying anything. And in fact the girl is not the only one. A passenger here, another there: they seem awake, aware, but slump where they sit, as though boneless.
Arthur concentrates on the set of shoulders in front of him. He passes through the curtain. He squints and with a stagger steps from the bus.
When he was eleven years old he kissed a girl for the first time. He had to wait in line, behind Jason Parker and Christian Rafferty but ahead of Brendan Marsh and Stanley Jessop and the boy all the other kids knew as Morbid, who admittedly was only in line because he followed Stanley Jessop like a pet. Samantha Bartlett, when it came to Morbid’s turn, made puking noises and shoved him away but Arthur was granted a full six seconds. He knows because Stanley Jessop timed it. And it would have been longer, Arthur is sure, had he known what to do with his tongue. He did not, and six seconds was all he got, but still it was a victory of sorts, a milestone even, and it made the excursion to Devonshire Manor almost worthwhile.
It is the same building, Arthur is convinced. But it is only the courtyard that makes him think so: an expanse of pale gravel, walled in but otherwise featureless, which might have been landscaped with coach parties and school kids on field trips in mind. The building itself is at once generic and unique. It is a castle but not one that would repel an army. It looks, rather, as if it has been modelled on a child’s drawing and then modified to satisfy the caprices of its owner. There is a rose window above the main door, glassed in hues of red and too small to resemble anything other than a pimple. The staircase that spills from the entrance might be the building’s tongue; the oversized windows on the second floor its goggling eyes. There are crenellated towers at each corner of the main wall, protruding like splintered horns. The face the building presents is stark enough to be imposing but it is faintly ridiculous too. It leers, mocking those who would regard it and heedless of what they might think.
