Dark Matter (22 page)

09:55  08 November [08:55  08 November GMT]

Apartment of Anne-Marie, La Courtine, Central France.

Severine arrived at Anne-Marie's a little breathless.  She had been cycling faster than she would normally, faster than she realised.  Keen to discuss the offer with her and just plain keen to see her again she ran up the stairs to her door.  Knocking rapidly upon it she was relieved when it was opened but heart broken when the face that greeted her was old and wrinkled. 

'Where is Anne-Marie?'  She asked the old woman.

'She has gone to the shops, would you like to come in and wait, I've nearly finished cleaning.'

'No thanks,' Severine said over her shoulder as she raced back down the stairs and out into the street.  Darting around the town square, she spotted Anne-Marie coming out of the butcher's shop.  Gaining her composure again, she walked over to meet her.

'Bonjour Anne-Marie, Ça va?'

'I'm well thank you Severine, yourself?'

'I have some exciting news which I want to tell you over lunch.'

'Well it's good that I have just been shopping for more food, I have enough for two if you don't mind sharing?'

'That sounds perfect.'

They talked whilst making lunch and continued whilst eating it.  Severine feeling that she could be open about her past now with another person.  However she kept the salient facts to herself, no names, countries, dates or anything that could be used to work out where she had been doing the things she told her she had done.  Finally, it all came down to one question.

'So, what do you think?  What should I do?'

'You know,' Anne-Marie began, seeing the expectant look on Severine's face.  'I think if there had been any doubt in your mind you wouldn't have told me about it.  I think you should go for it!'

'Thanks, I actually hoped you would say that, would you mind if I rang him now?'

'Not at all, do you want some privacy?'

'No that's OK, a glass of wine to celebrate might be nice.'

'Hello, Monsieur Chevalier?  Qui, it is Severine.  I would like to accept your offer.'

'Of course, I'll be in touch. 
Oh and welcome to le soixante-dix-neuf.'  Monsieur Chevalier replied.

'What did he say?'  Anne-Marie asked when Severine had finished.

'He said welcome to the seventy-nine.'

10
An Old Job

11:55
              05 November  [11:55  05 November GMT]

Magdalen College, Oxford University, Oxford, England.

Professor George Hamilton looked out at the audience for his lecture, he was aware that someone had just spoken, but not who or why.

'Professor?'  The student asked.

'Yes?'  George replied simply.

'Well, what do you think?'

'About what?'  George didn't have a clue.

'About my question?'  The student replied, clearly irritated.

'Question.  Your question.  What do I think about your question?'  George was desperately trying to work out if he could remember him asking a question. 
Nope
, he decided,
not a clue
.

'Could you repeat your question?'

'Very well,' the student replied, clearly annoyed and not afraid to show it.  'I asked, what is your opinion on the similarities between the Battle of Thermopylae and the Battle of Hastings?'

For most professors of military history this would have been an insightful question and would clearly have marked the student out as one with great potential.  Unfortunately, for this student Professor George Hamilton was not in the category of most professors of military history.

'Well of course they show similarities, that's obvious.  The question is why.  Why, when there is no evidence that William the second of Normandy was aware of the Thermopylae.' 

If the student had let his irritation and annoyance show, then George had both emboldened and underlined his as well.

'Now are then any real questions?’  George asked the students, 'No?  Well I hope things will improve next time.'  With that, he simply walked out of the lecture hall. 

'Don't worry' said another student to the one who had asked the question, 'he is always like that.  I hear he even treats other Professors the same.'

'He's an asshole.'  The first student said.

'Probably,' replied the second, 'but his lectures are always packed and he is one of the most respected military historians in the world.'

George was distracted, much more so than usual.  Since his brother Jack had visited explaining about his sabbatical from work to complete his PhD, he had felt restless.  He looked again at his notes on his book “Modern and Ancient Military History”.  A simple title, this was to be the definitive work on the subject from the definitive author.  The trouble was it was still only notes and only rough notes at that.  He needed time, he needed space, he needed to get his book written.  Wet-nursing a load of undergraduates or even postgraduates would not do it.

What he needed was some time away from lecturing. 
In short, a sabbatical of my own.  Now of course Jack will think I’m copying him.  Maybe I am… but fuck it,
he thought,
it's what I need.  Of course, the sabbatical will be unpaid and as I’ve already spent the advance from the publishers that means I’ll need another job, money to live.  I guess I’ll have to go back to photography…

George was an accomplished war photographer.  He had spent time in most of the major conflict zones since he was in his late teens, now thirty it was time to return to the field.  The reality of it would be very different to the thought of it, he knew.  Nevertheless, once back into the situation he wagered that he would be able to cope again. 

The nightmares would be a different matter though; the reporting of conflicts was a long way from the job on the ground.  The photos that sold were never representative of the conflict.  The smell, the taste, the fear, but most of all the consequences.  People died.  People just like everyone else, with mothers, fathers, children, and friends.  He had to deal with those.  Up close and personal, the individuals concerned were real to him.  He had spent time in villages and towns only to see those consumed by fighting, his photographs recorded for posterity the lives and deaths of civilians and soldiers alike. 

The wounded are the worst.  Children missing limbs, screaming for parents who have died.  Then there are those who use raping and pillaging as another weapon.
  George had never been a direct witness, witnesses were rarely left alive.  He had photographed the victims and heard their statements after the event.  Knowing it would happen made his stomach churn every time. 
That’s the job though.  That’s what I’d be going back to.
  He picked up the phone to his agent.

'Hi Jackie, its George Hamilton.  I'm fine thanks, yourself?  Good, good.  Look the reason I'm calling is I'm looking for some work.  Probably a couple of years.  Yes, really.  I'm looking to finish my book and I need some time away from academic life to do it.  No, I don't expect to be able to write whilst I'm being shot at, very funny.  You know how it is, time on and time off.  I need the time off.  Really?  That's great.  Yes, I know Jane, that is I know of her by reputation but I've never actually met her.  If you could, yes, that's terrific.  OK, I'll wait for your call.'

Now that is a real result,
George thought to himself,
Jane Spencer-Brown is looking for a new photographer.
  He had heard about her being shot on assignment and it was no great secret that she suffered from depression. 
It’s unusual that I’ve never met her though, especially with war reporting being such a close-knit community, but I guess life is like that sometimes.  Besides, we both go where we are sent.

09:15
              06 November  [09:15  06 November GMT]

Windsor & Eton Riverside Train Station, Windsor, England.

George liked the slow train into town.  He could have opted to take the branch line into Slough then the fast train into Paddington, but he preferred this one.  This was the start of the line, so he was always guaranteed a seat, the journey taking about an hour as it stops at many stations en route. 
It moves at a nice speed and it gives me time to think.  An hour spare is always welcome
, he thought as he stood in line waiting to be served.  The line was moving along at an efficient if not fast pace.  Again, he preferred this to the automated and impersonal ticket machines.  His ticket now in hand, he stopped at the kiosk to buy a coffee for the journey.  He had his small computer with him; about the size of a hard-backed book with a nine-inch screen, it was perfect for work on the go.  He settled down on the train, obtaining a seat with a small table. 

He started to review the few notes he had made for his book.  He had his title “Modern and Ancient Military History” but this provided a scope so wide he could spend many lifetimes researching and writing about it
.  I need an angle, a purpose for the book, especially if it’s not to become another dry treatise charting dates and facts.
  He wanted his work to have life, purpose, and meaning. 
That means an angle such as the one I suggested to Jack, about how Coal and Iron are better investments than Gold. 

He did have one idea already, and that was that warfare had evolved along the same time-line as society.  As the human race had learned to farm, they gained time and resources that they had never had before.  Previously their entire existence was dependent upon the need to gather food every day.  Now a few could gather food for the many, leaving a number of people free to do other things.  Some of them turned to productive work, making better homes, finding sources of fresh water and providing the farmers first with simple tools, then better tools.  However, there was still spare capacity, and some found it easier to take what others had produced rather than trade for it.

Then as society grew from villages into towns and towns into regions, the people were organised to protect their region against the neighbouring regions.  Such protection often involved attacking a region perceived as a threat.  This escalated into regions forming alliances or taking over other regions and nations were born.  Society had now advanced sufficiently to support full-time standing armies.  Now nations warred with one another.  They built alliances through agreements or empires through conquests.  They mechanized the tools of war so more people could be killed.  Empires fought and brought forward the concept of world wars.  Finally, society managed to create the means through which entire cities could be destroyed.  This moved conflicts into war-by-proxy.  Now the empires fought one another through a series of relatively small scale, local conflicts like chess players moving their pieces around a global board.  War had reached its zenith, the ultimate recreational pursuit, now performed not for survival or conquest but for ideology and always somewhere else.

This
, thought George to himself,
is the Iron and Coal of the argument.  It explains how the concept of war was born and how it grew.  It doesn't answer the student's question from the lecture however, about the similarities between the Battles of Hastings and Thermopylae.
This was just one of many that George was aware of.  There were more than could be explained by chance.  The real problem was two civilisations, which had used the same strategy and tactics, had never interacted.  That and the fact that the similarities were so strong it was as if the same person who had lead the first war was leading the second somewhere else in the world, long after they should have been dead.

This was where George struggled.  Although a spiritual person, his belief in religion was limited to its positive messages rather than literal interpretations.  Noah did not live to be 950 years old.  However, the story of Noah about loss and redemption was an inspiring one. 
The problem is that the battles and wars were well described in the local language of the time and these have only come together relatively recently.

George realised he was going round in circles
.  I know how to chart the rise of warfare, but not to explain the obvious similarities.
  The professor in George spoke up,
stop trying to write the book before you have completed the research and analysed it.
  That was good advice to himself he realised. 
Just do the work well and let the cards fall where they may.
  He decided that as he was on his way to meet Jane he should review her online biography.

Jane Spencer-Brown, thirty-eight, twice divorced with two children, Rebecca 16 and Julia 7.  Father Timothy, a Lieutenant-Colonel in the Coldstream Guards (retired), Mother Sarah-Jane.  Older brother Patrick a Captain in the Coldstream Guards.  Suffered from bouts of depression her entire adult life.  Recognised as one of the best in her field, she has been with Global Disclosure for the last ten years. 
He looked at the photos of her.  Petite and well formed, her presumably dyed blonde hair, setting off her small, almost elfin face.  She was undeniably pretty.  None of this really mattered to George except her professional reputation; this would undoubtedly mean that they would be sent on some of the best assignments.  These however would also be the most dangerous.

Waterloo station was the end of the line for the train and George hopped onto the Jubilee line for Canary Wharf and the head offices of Global Disclosure.  He managed to come out of the correct exit for once, for him this was always a bit of a gamble.  Using the underground always made him feel a little like a mole, burrowing from here to there and then popping up to look around and see where he was.  After checking in at reception, he didn't have to wait long for Jane to appear and escort him back to her desk. 

'I'm just going to set my out of office and then I thought we could talk over lunch.'

'That sounds great.'  George replied starting to think about having a pint or two over lunch and then maybe venturing over to Covent Garden for the afternoon and evening.  Covent Garden being one of his favourite places to spend time when he was in London.  That and Soho. 
The sheer variety of pubs, bars, and cafes always seems endless.
  There was always something available to suit every mood and occasion. 
Plus
, he thought to himself,
it’s a great place to people watch and if some of those people happen to be young, attractive and female who am I to argue?
Then he realised that he was going to have lunch with someone young, attractive, and female.
  Sure,
he thought,
she may be eight years older than me, but she looks ten years younger than she is and anyway, thirty-eight is young these days.

They chose a bar overlooking the Thames, the weather fine they sat outside so that Jane could smoke.  They ordered drinks and lunch, Jane opting for a lightly dressed salad, George the steak sandwich with mustard.  As the waitress brought their drinks, Jane brought the conversation round to business.

'I think you should know straight up front,' she began, 'that the job is yours.  That's if you want it.'

'Thank you.  I do.  That's why I'm here.  Is there nothing you would like to know?'

'Of course,' she replied easily, 'many things.  But the most important is that you come highly recommended.  As you know, we will have plenty of time to get acquainted whilst we work.  I guess if I were to ask it would be why have you returned to photo journalism?'