The Facility, page 8
‘You know what year this is, don’t you? You know this isn’t the nineteen-thirties?’
‘Mr Simmons,’ says Graves, ‘date and time have nothing to do with this. You are here and that is the end of it. I suggest you come to terms with that fact because there is every chance you will remain here until—’
You die. He is about to say, until you die.
‘—until I decide otherwise.’ Graves signals to Burrows. ‘That is all,’ he says, addressing the other inmates now. ‘If you are in need of medical attention, make yourselves known. Otherwise . . . Otherwise, get some rest.’
Graves moves quickly away. He hears Burrows behind him, issuing instructions to the guards, and his intention is to be inside before his assistant can catch up. If Burrows had any sense about him, he would recognise this and let Graves go.
‘Henry!’
Common sense, then, is not his strong point. That much was clear already.
‘Henry, hang on!’
And it is only Henry, Graves is learning, when Burrows wants something or regrets something or feels the need to make amends, as though invoking his boss’s Christian name will addle in Graves’s mind the nature of their relationship. His assistant is only a young man but he is old enough for Graves to expect better. Better discipline. More respect. Although tonight, it is true, he hardly feels worthy of respect.
‘What is it, John?’
‘I . . . I owe you an apology,’ Burrows says, drawing level. ‘I hired the guards. I briefed them. They did not behave properly tonight. They let me down, which means they let you down. Which means that . . . Well. That I let you down too.’
For a moment Graves is unsure how to respond. He is confronted suddenly with the likelihood that he has judged his assistant too harshly and the realisation does nothing to repair his self-regard. ‘Thank you, John,’ he says. ‘Apology accepted. I appreciate you offering it.’ Graves hesitates. He nods, then continues on his way.
‘You’re not angry then?’ says Burrows, hurrying to catch up.
Although, it must be said, this constant need for approval is growing a little wearing. ‘I’m not angry, John. Not at you.’ Graves veers towards the door and Burrows has to drop behind and around him to keep level.
‘Can I do anything though? I’ll organise the clean-up, shall I?’
Graves stops. Burrows stops too but a fraction too late to avoid bumping into his boss.
‘The clean-up?’
Burrows points. ‘Of the canteen. I’ll get some of the guards, fetch a few mops. It shouldn’t take more than a couple of hours.’
‘A couple of—’ Graves shakes his head. ‘Think, John. Think about what it is you are planning to mop up.’
Burrows looks perplexed. ‘What do you mean? It’s just food. Food and milk and maybe a few drops of—’
Graves watches as understanding dawns. ‘There is a procedure, John. When blood is spilled, there is a procedure we need to follow. I wouldn’t have thought it necessary to remind you.’
‘No. No, of course not.’
‘The guards, John. See to them first. If any of them have suffered lacerations, treat them, isolate them and we’ll have to see about getting them tested.’
‘Yes, Henry. I mean, sir.’
‘And while you’re at it, perhaps you might have a word with them. Perhaps you might remind them that there are less forcible ways to deal with dissent than clubbing a man senseless with a truncheon.’
Burrows nods. Graves regards him for a moment. On any other occasion he might be tempted to take him to task. Instead he reaches for the door that leads inside. He is about to let it close behind him when he stops again, turns. His assistant is studying the ground at his feet.
‘John.’
Burrows looks up. ‘Yes, sir?’
‘The name Silk. Does it mean anything to you?’
‘Silk?’
‘Dr Silk. I was on the phone to Jenkins before and he mentioned the name. Told me to expect him.’
‘Oh,’ says Burrows. ‘Yes. That’s right. He’s arriving Monday, I believe.’
‘Monday?’ It is Friday. ‘You didn’t feel the need to mention—’ Graves shakes his head. ‘Never mind.’
‘I assumed you knew. I assumed someone had told you.’
‘Who would tell me, John, if not my assistant?’
Burrows opens his mouth but no sound comes out. He shuffles his feet.
Graves exhales. ‘Monday, you say?’
‘Yes, sir. That’s what the message said. They are arriving on Monday. Dr Silk and his team.’
His team now. Dr Silk and his team.
Graves is suddenly exhausted. In body, in mind: he is ready to shut down. Goodnight, John, he would say but he does not have the energy. And anyway it hardly seems appropriate. Regardless of how tired he feels now, he knows already his chances of getting any sleep.
There is no pattern. That is the problem with research: the more you find out, the more confused things become. Give him white or – preferably, for the sake of a story – give him black; shades of grey create an unwelcome fog.
‘There’s no pattern.’ Tom taps his pen against his notepad. He chews the end for a while and then taps it again on the pad. He turns. ‘Amy,’ he says. She has her eyes closed but he knows she is awake. ‘Amy.’ He throws a Skittle from the packet on his desk. It misses so he searches for another green one and throws that too. It hits her nose. Amy opens one eye.
‘There’s no pattern. How can I tell how a law is being used when the whole point of that law is to prevent me finding out?’
Amy’s eye closes.
‘I mean, they only admit to a handful of arrests, and usually only then because someone confronts them. Like Julia did, for instance. Although if it hadn’t been for that video she would still be phoning round hospitals.’ Tom flicks with his mouse from browser to browser. He settles for a while on the only high-profile case he has found of an arrest where Unified Security is even mentioned, that of a Muslim man from Leicester who was detained for ninety-seven days before being released without charge. The episode made the nationals, including one or two front pages. It did not help the police that their operation from the start was so clumsy: Samal Khan was seized on the steps outside a mosque, on his way home from the Maghrib prayer. A campaign was launched against the police’s right to hold Khan and for almost a fortnight Unified Security became a topic of debate. It was the first time, really, the act had made headlines since the Freedom Marchers lost the moral high ground by trapping, inadvertently, a mother and her baby in a burning car. Once again, though, the sympathetic segments of the press grew twitchy and aligned themselves with the tabloids and public opinion instead. Khan was ambiguous in his devotion to his new homeland. He did not, more to the point, photograph well: his beard was long, his left eye squinted. The debate shifted from why Muslims were so often victimised to why the hell should they not be? Unified Security became a sidebar, then a footnote, then a story consigned to the archive.
So there is the Khan case and nothing that is any more helpful. There are one or two NIBs in the local press, some independent sites on the web – maybe twenty instances in total of an arrest where Unified Security is the focus of the coverage, almost all of which relate in some way to accusations of terrorism. Which leaves Tom no further along than where he started: with no idea whatsoever about why or where Arthur Priestley is being held.
‘Guess,’ he says. ‘Have a guess how many times they’ve used Unified Security and the general public has been none the wiser.’
Amy makes no sign of having heard him. She still has her eyes closed, her feet on her desk and her head on a balled-up jumper against her chair.
‘You can’t,’ says Tom. ‘Can you? There’s no point even trying because I wouldn’t be able to tell you whether you were right or not. Which is why,’ he adds, raising a finger, ‘the law is so effective, from the government’s point of view. And it’s why they’re winning. No one opposes the act any more because no one can see how it’s being used.’
‘They’ve never opposed it, Tom.’
Tom is looking at his monitor again and at the sound of Amy’s voice he turns. She is sitting upright now, yawning. She rubs at her eyes with her fingers, then tenses in a half-extended stretch. Tom checks the clock on his screen. It is almost midnight. ‘Go home,’ he says. ‘It’s Sunday tomorrow, remember? You’re the only one still here.’
‘You’re here.’ Amy swallows and grimaces as though there is the taste in her mouth of something unpleasant.
‘I’m not tired. If I were tired, I’d go to bed. I wouldn’t be sleeping at my desk.’
‘I’m power-napping,’ Amy says. ‘I don’t sleep any more. If I power-nap, I don’t have to commute.’ She wiggles her mouse and her computer clicks and whirrs into life. ‘Also, I have like a million words to write. And at the moment I’m on . . .’ She squints at her screen and taps a key on her keyboard. ‘Eighty-two.’
‘And anyway you’re wrong,’ says Tom, ignoring the digression.‘Two million people camped outside the gates to Downing Street: that’s how I know you’re wrong.’
‘Two million out of sixty-five. Which leaves sixty-three million sitting on their sofas with a copy of the Daily Mail and a nice cup of tea.’
Tom shakes his head. ‘Just because they didn’t march, doesn’t mean they supported the bill.’
‘Every poll, Tom, even ours: they all put support in the high sixties. As for the other thirty-odd per cent, they probably weren’t that bothered either way. That’s why the press doesn’t report on it. That’s why Katherine wouldn’t let you write about your friend.’ Amy stands. ‘By the way,’ she says. She is smiling and edging towards Tom’s chair. ‘How is the dazzling Mrs Priestley? How are things, you know: between you?’
Tom scowls, waves a hand. ‘It’s not like that.’
Amy leans in close. When she talks he can feel her breath in his ear. ‘But oh, how you wish it were.’ She reaches and plucks a Skittle from his desk. ‘Write my story for me.’
‘What? No.’
‘Go on. It’s right up your street.’
‘Why? What’s it about?’
‘Thwarted love,’ says Amy and she flutters her eyelids. She reaches for another Skittle but Tom clamps his hand on top of the packet.
‘I’m working,’ he says. ‘I’m trying to work.’
‘I’ll help.’ Amy pulls up a chair and sits beside him. ‘Seriously. No more jokes, I promise.’
‘I thought you had an article to write.’
‘I do. That’s why I’d rather be sitting here. Tell me,’ she says, tugging the bag of Skittles from beneath Tom’s hand. ‘What have you got?’
‘Sore eyes,’ says Tom, rubbing them. ‘RSI in my wrist. An aching head from banging it against a brick wall.’ He stands. ‘I’m getting coffee. Do you want some?’
Amy’s attention is on his screen. She shakes her head. Tom picks up his cup and carries it through the darkened office to the kitchenette. The hum of the fridge greets him, as well as the smell of the food that has been left to fester inside. He flicks on the overhead light. There is coffee in the jug but no heat from the plate underneath. He fills his cup anyway and blasts it in the microwave. He does not give it long enough and the coffee is tepid as he sips it on his way back to his desk.
‘What are you looking for exactly?’ says Amy. She has moved from her seat to his. ‘How is all this stuff supposed to help?’
‘It doesn’t.’ Tom gestures for the return of his chair but Amy shoos him away. He frowns, sits in hers. ‘I thought it might but I was wrong.’
‘You should speak to what’s his name.’
‘Stanford? At the Met? I have already.’
‘What about—’
‘Maynard? In the Home Office? Him too.’
Amy turns from the screen to face him. ‘Nothing? They couldn’t help?’
‘Couldn’t or wouldn’t.’
‘That’s unusual,’ Amy says. ‘Especially for Maynard.’
‘That’s what I thought.’ Tom chews a Skittle and washes it down. The coffee is not improved by the twist of synthetic lime.
‘Have you found anything of any use? What’s all this stuff?’ Amy tips her chin to the pile of printouts on his desk.
‘Missing-person reports. Online appeals. Rewards offered. That sort of thing.’
‘You think they’ve been arrested?’ Amy lifts a corner of the pile nearest to her and allows the pages to fan out from under her thumb. ‘You think these people are being held somewhere and their families don’t know?’
‘Not all of them. Some of them. Maybe none of them. I don’t know. I was just looking for . . . I don’t know. I don’t know what I was looking for.’ He presses his palms to his eyes. ‘I’m tired. I am. I said I wasn’t but I really am.’
‘Ten minutes,’ says Amy. ‘Trust me. Just ten minutes with your eyes closed. If Katherine’s around, stick your headphones on and it’ll look like you’re listening to an interview.’
Tom shakes his head. ‘Coffee,’ he says. ‘Confectionery. That’s what works for me.’ He slaps his cheeks, rather harder than he intended.
‘And self-harm. Ingenious.’ Amy points at another pile on the desk, smaller than the first and topped by a Post-it note scrawled with a question mark. ‘What does this mean?’
‘It’s a question mark. It means I don’t know what it means.’
Amy peels off the Post-it note and scans the top sheet. There are only five pages in the pile and she looks at each in turn. ‘Okay,’ she says, turning from the last page to the first again. ‘So?’
‘I don’t know. I really don’t know what it means. But I was looking at people who’ve been reported missing. And there are a lot of them, as it happens. About two hundred thousand new cases in the UK every year.’
‘Wow.’
‘I know. But that’s mainly kids, right? Narrow it down to white male professionals in their late twenties or early thirties and it drops to a few thousand. Restrict it by date and it’s hundreds. Look for those who are still missing after a week, it’s fewer still.’
‘And these . . .’ Amy gestures to the pile in Tom’s hand.
‘These,’ says Tom, ‘are the white male professionals in their twenties and early thirties who went missing about the same time as Arthur Priestley. None has been found and none has a profile, as far as I can tell, that suggests any good reason why they should have vanished.’
‘Such as?’
‘I don’t know. I’m just guessing, really. But financial troubles. An estranged family. Drug abuse. That sort of thing.’
‘Are they all from London?’
‘Mostly. One’s from Brighton.’
‘But they’re all gay. All the cases you can find that bear any resemblance to Arthur’s—’
‘Involve gay men. Right. There’s another three in this pile here and I don’t know whether they’re gay or not. They don’t have Facebook pages, there’s nothing obvious in the coverage—’
‘Like what? How do you know the other five are gay?’
‘It says. Either they have a partner called Toby or Jonathan or something, or it just outright says. These other three, though: they’re not married, they don’t have kids. There’s nothing to suggest they’re straight but that’s not exactly confirmation that they’re gay. So they get their own pile.’
Amy reclines in her chair. She takes the printouts from Tom again and skims each page one more time. ‘So you’ve got five, maybe eight, men who went missing at the same time Arthur did, all fitting Arthur’s profile except for the fact that they’re gay. Right?’
‘Right.’
‘What about Arthur?’
‘What about him?’
‘Is he gay?’
‘He’s married. He has a son.’
‘So?’ says Amy. ‘He could still be gay.’
Tom smiles, shakes his head. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘Why not? Just because it’s Julia he’s married to?’
‘She would know.’
‘Not necessarily.’
‘You would know, don’t you think? If you were married and your husband turned out to be gay, don’t you think you would know?’
‘I would hope so. But I couldn’t be certain. If my husband wasn’t certain himself, for example, how could I expect to know better than him?’
Tom snorts.
‘What?’ says Amy. ‘What does that mean?’
‘If your husband wasn’t certain. How could your husband not be certain? If he had a thing for other blokes, I would think he would probably be aware of it. Men get . . . You know. Signs.’
Amy tuts. ‘That’s so typical.’
‘All I’m saying is—’
‘I know what you’re saying, Tom. The problem is, not everything in this world is black and white. There are shades of grey, you know. There’s such a thing as ambiguity.’
Tom finds himself smiling. ‘I don’t think I can really argue with that.’
Amy has her arms crossed now. She is staring at the screensaver on Tom’s computer screen. Tom tugs at a thread that is loose on the upholstery of his seat. He winds the thread around his finger but when he pulls to try and snap it off it only gets longer.
‘They’re separated, you know.’ Tom looks at Amy. ‘Julia and Arthur. They’re still married but they’ve been apart for about a year.’
Amy raises her eyebrows. She does not say what she is thinking but she does not need to.
‘I know,’ says Tom. ‘I know. But even so, I don’t think he’s gay. I don’t think he’s that interesting, to be honest.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘I did some digging, spoke to some friends of his. He runs his own dental practice and that’s basically his life. He earns good money but he doesn’t spend it. He plays golf once in a while but not very well. He likes wine but only ever drinks in moderation. I guessed his password on Amazon—’
