Chapter 17

I screwed a memo into a tight ball and flicked it at the window. Idly, I picked up my phone. I was surprised; it purred a normal dialling tone. They usually had my phone turned off at this time of day. I didn't waste a second. I dialled 9 for an exchange line. I was outside! I quickly punched out my home number. The phone rang five times. I swear that my heart was going pitty-pat! It rang twice more and clicked.

'Hello,' answered Lizzie. She sounded really sad.

'Baby, hi, it's me,' I said happily. I could feel the insides of my eyes pricking.

'But, Ratty!' she cried, laughing. 'This isn't the time you normally call. Where are you?' Are you back?'

'Still in London, worse luck,' I growled. 'The minders must have left my phone on by mistake. I'm going to make the most of it, too.'

'Oh, Dick, when are you coming home?' she asked, sad again. 'Dick, I'm in trouble, I need you home. We need to talk.'

'They won't let me go yet, love,' I said quietly. I didn't ask what she meant.

'But they can't keep you there against your will, Dick,' protested Lizzie. 'I need to see you and I need to see you now.'

'Unfortunately, they can, love,' I said gloomily, 'Official Secrets Act, Emergency Powers Act and all that sort of stuff.'

'Oh, Rattykins, the children miss you so much. You've been down there for months and months and months. We need you here at home with us,' she sighed. 'I've got to talk.'

'Yeah, I miss you guys, too, lovey,' I answered sadly. There was a long pause as we swallowed down our lumps together. 'So what's been happening at home?' I asked.

'Oh, it's been just terrible here, Dick,' replied Lizzie. 'All our trees are down now and the rest of the garage fell in last week. A lot of the house tiles are off again, but I just can't get anyone up to fix them. We moved the beds downstairs after the garage went. Oh and it's so terribly dry too; I've been having to carry buckets of water to your sheep. There's only a few of them that haven't wandered off.'

'Listen, Lizzie, you'd better get yourselves right on down into the cellar,' I said. 'You'll be a lot safer down there.'

'But it's not very comfortable in the cellar, Dick,' she protested. 'It's dusty and it smells.'

'It's not very comfortable with a couple tons of roof, beams and ceiling on top of you, either,' I replied sharply.

'Oh, I'll wait until you get home, Dick,' said Lizzie. 'You've got to come home.'

'Don't wait, lovey, I don't know when they'll let me go,' I insisted. 'There's just no telling how much longer I'll be here. Things seem to be getting worse and worse.'

'You mean it's bad down there, too?' she asked, surprised.

'Oh, God, yes, it's absolutely terrible,' I said. 'Aren't you getting any news in Wales? I can't really tell you what you shouldn't know.'

'Of course, Dick,' she said. 'But there's been nothing on the radio or TV about London having storms. They've even stopped running your dopey rabbit adverts. So London's getting it, too?'

'Christ, yes, there's hardly a tree left standing and most of the buildings have been damaged,' I said. 'A lot of flooding. I really don't know ... '

The receiver crackled, gurgled and burped. I hit the re-dial button, but got only got intermittent popping sounds. I keyed out the full number again; nothing. And then again. I tried three more times; nothing. I slammed the receiver down and gritted my teeth. I pulled out a telephone list of my old earth science mates from my briefcase and dialled the first number. Much to my surprise, the phone rang.

'University College,' sang the switchboard operator.

'Could I have the Geology Department, please?' I asked.

The extension rang and a woman answered, 'Good morning, Geology Department.'

'Good morning,' I replied. 'Could I speak to Bob Wallace, please?'

'Oh, dear,' she said. There was a tense pause. 'I'm afraid not.'

'Well, that's all right, I'll try again later,' I said. 'Could you tell me when he'll be in, please?'

There was another heavy pause. 'Do you think I could ask who's speaking, please?'

This was getting a bit tedious. 'I am Professor Richard Turner of the Cabinet Office,' I said briskly.

That line nearly always wowed them. 'Oh my goodness,' replied the woman with surprise.

'Now, do you think that I could speak with Bob, please?' I said.

'I'm terribly sorry, but Professor Wallace had a heart attack early last week, Professor Turner,' she said.

'Oh good God,' I breathed. 'I had no idea. Is he all right?' I was really bloody surprised. Bob was a good five years younger than I.

'Well, I'm afraid not, sir,' she said. 'It was very severe.' Her voice quivered slightly.

'You mean he's ... ?' Now I was really shocked.

'I'm afraid so, Professor,' her voice caught. 'The funeral was on Monday.'

'Oh, I am terribly sorry,' I said. 'Please excuse me for bothering you. Would you please give Ruth my condolences.' I hung up before the secretary could answer. Jesus. Bob Wallace dead. A heart attack at his age. Great strapping Kiwi brute. Rugger man. "Fit as a bleeding fiddle!" he used to boom at us. Christ, what a shocker. That really made you feel your age. That was a damn sight worse than finding a wad of hair in your brush each morning or your first grey pubic hair.

I jotted a note to myself to write a condolence letter to Ruth. I quickly dialled the next number on the list. It rang right away.

'Good morning, Ipswich University.'

'Hello. Could I speak to Professor Bondell, please.' I said.

'I am sorry, caller, but Professor Bondell is no longer at the University.'

'Oh?' I asked. 'Well, look, ...'

'One moment, caller, I'll connect you with the Personnel Department.' The line clicked and then beeped.

'Personnel Department here.'

'I'd like to speak to Professor Bondell,' I explained. 'Your switchboard say that he's no longer at the University.'

'Could I ask who's calling, please?'

'My name is Professor Turner. I'm with the Cabinet Office,' I said.

'Just one moment, sir, I'll connect you to Mr Foggett, our personnel manager.' More clicks and beeps.

'Foggett speaking.'

'Good morning, my name is Turner. I'm with the Cabinet Office.'

'Oh indeed?' replied Foggett. I was sure there was the hint of a sceptical tone in his voice.

'Yes, that's right. I'd like to get in touch with Professor Bondell. Could you possibly let me have his forwarding address, please?' I asked.

'Well, I'm sorry, but I can't do that, Mr Turner,' said Foggett.

'Professor Turner,' I corrected snottily. 'And this is official business, Mr Foggett.'

'In that case, I'd be glad to oblige. If you'll just pass your request through the normal channels,' he said calmly.

'Look,' I said, 'That will take a lot more time than it's worth. Can't you just tell me where Ralph's gone?'

'Well, actually, we don't know where he's gone,' admitted Foggett. 'I suppose there's no harm in telling you that.'

'What do you mean, you don't know where he's gone?' I demanded.

'Well, Professor Bondell just called the Meteorology Department secretary one morning last month and said he was going abroad indefinitely. He couldn't say when he'd be back or even if he'd be back at all.'

'Well, that's strange ... ' I replied. There was a hollow click and my phone went completely dead. I tapped out a few numbers, but there was nothing: not a snap, crackle or pop. In a way, I was relieved. I think I was afraid of what I might find out if I kept on calling. I slipped the list back into my briefcase and gazed out the window for a moment. The wind was whipping a small dust-storm up and down the road. I picked up the phone and idly tapped a few keys. It was still dead.

There was a perfunctory rap on the door. Peters slid his head into the office. 'Are you going to be coming to the meeting, Professor?' he purred.

'Yes, Peters, I'm coming,' I snapped, 'It's another ten minutes before the gate, anyway.'

He glanced at the phone in my hand and gave me his slimiest lizard smirk. 'I think you'll find that the phones are none too reliable at the moment, Professor,' commented Peters. 'Especially yours, sir.' His loathsome head disappeared and I thought I heard a faint snorting giggle. Sometimes, you'd have to be crazy not to be paranoid.

I slammed the phone back down on the hook. 'Bastards,' I hissed, 'Bastards.' Yeah, OK, so they were messing around with my phone. Stopping it, bugging it, shutting it on and off whenever they liked. Playing with it. Hoping I'd lead them to some fiendish environmental activist plot. Bastards.

There was another rap on the door. Bastards back for more, no doubt. 'All right, dammit, I'm bloody well coming!' I shouted. Arthur peeked through the door, a hurt look on his face. 'Oh, gosh, I'm sorry, Arthur,' I said meekly, 'I thought it was Peters hassling me again about the meeting.'

Arthur grinned. 'Well, I'm afraid that I'm on a similar sort of mission, Dick. I'd like for you to give a quick look-over the minutes.' He slid a typed sheet in front of me. There was a yellow note slip gummed to it. The note said:

Dick,

Don't look surprised or say anything. Your room is sound and video bugged. I need to talk to you. Follow me, please.

Arthur.

'Does that agenda look all right to you, Dick?' he asked.

'Yeah, I guess it looks OK,' I grunted and shrugged.

Arthur glanced at his watch. 'We've got a few minutes before the meeting starts. Fancy a cup of tea?' he asked casually.

'Sure, why not?' I replied. I stood and folded the sheet to conceal the note. I tucked the minutes into my jacket pocket and followed Arthur down the hall.

Arthur stopped beside a tall stained-glass window, facing towards Downing Street. He looked around carefully before he spoke. 'Sorry to have to use such a dramatic device, Dick, but I needed to talk to you privately,' he said in a low voice.

'What's the matter, then?' I asked with concern. This wasn't much like Arthur, sneaking around like this.

'Roger Hamilton's dead,' he blurted. His lips were set in a grim slash.

An icy trickle slid down my back. 'Jesus Christ, how?'

'Heart attack,' said Arthur.

'Awful lot of heart attacks going around these days,' I commented sceptically. 'Practically an epidemic, in fact.'

'So what have you heard, then?' asked Arthur.

'I just managed to call two of my earth science colleagues on my very heavily bugged phone. One of them is dead from a heart attack, the other has disappeared to nowhere on no notice,' I said.

Arthur looked even more grim. 'Well, there's even more, Dick. A good deal more. I heard this morning that Hamilton's wife committed suicide, pills, the day after his fatal heart attack.'

'Crumbs,' I whispered.

'And the Minister's wife died in a car crash three days ago,' he finished.

'Shit,' I hissed. 'Maybe that's not exactly a statistically significant sample, but it looks like a pretty heavy-duty coincidence to me.'

'My thoughts precisely,' replied Arthur. He pursed his lips and raised his eyebrows. 'That's not all that's worrying me, either, Dick.'

'No?' I asked.

'You know these evacuation lists?' asked Arthur.

'Of course I do,' I replied.

'Have you looked at them carefully?'

'They're not really my job, Arthur,' I said. 'I thought Tony was handling that.'

'You know that, except for senior government personnel, it's being done totally on the basis of income levels,' he said.

'Well, I suppose income might be a sort of simple minded indicator of merit,' I said, shrugging. Arthur looked sick. 'I mean it's probably better than random selection,' I explained.

'That's bollocks, Dick,' whispered Arthur hotly. 'It's only a simple minded indicator of greed and privilege. There are plenty of people who don't make two hundred thousand a year who are well worth saving!'

'Well, if that's the only threshold that's being applied, then I see your point,' I said. 'So what are we going to do about it?' I asked.

'I don't know, Dick,' admitted Arthur. 'I really don't know. I just know that I don't think I can condone what's going on any longer. That's why I've come to you. I know you're not their tool and that you're normally pretty resourceful.

Yeah, well, it was really very flattering of Arthur to say that, and all, but this non-tool was just about at the end of his famous resources by then. What with working twelve hours a day, seven days a week, for months on end and no conjugal visits, I was just about totally whacked. I was beginning to get the shakes if I even looked at a woman.

So why the hell didn't I just leg it home to the hills and happy family, all resourceful-like? Here's why: coppers on my back, 24 hours a day, and no working transport out of London. Not to mention, of course, the threat of being detained at HM's pleasure, and ending up under very much less salubrious conditions, if I tried on the great escape. Getting away was just not as easy as it sounds, old son. It wasn't just a case of saying "ta-ta" at the door and catching the 1705 to Crewe from Euston. Besides if I scarpered, they'd just come to my house and fetch me back. Or do something very much worse than that. Sure, I was scared. I'm sure that they wanted me to be scared, too.