Lie of the Land (6 page)

‘Thanks for the offer,' he said to her, drying a plate, ‘but I'll take my chances on the street with the Brownshirts tonight.'

Lesley was just about to speak when, from the sitting room, came the sound of Johnny Marr's chiming guitar. Grinning and swaying on the spot, Eric was sloshing whisky onto the floor. He raised his glass, not quite in time to the music. One side of his shirt had come out of his trousers. Carl watched him for a spell while Lesley clattered dishes in the kitchen. She was pissed off. That's what women do when they're pissed off, they take it out on the dishes, or the bathroom floor, or . . .

‘People didn't give a fuck in the old days,' shouted Eric, the daft grin fading. He rambled some more about a pristine past that never existed.

He stopped, stood still for a moment, then dropped his empty glass onto the dining table, glass on glass knocking hard together but nothing breaking, and collapsed onto the sofa.

Carl went over to the sofa and stood, watching. He picked up Eric's legs by the ankles and hoisted them onto the sofa.

‘The enemy within is the outsider, and we are all suspects,' said Eric woozily. He smiled, his eyes closing. ‘Stay on the outside, eh?'

‘Yes, Eric,' said Carl. ‘Whatever you say.'

Within a minute Eric was snoring, mouth slack and sucking for air, flat on his back, one foot on the floor.

‘I'll get a blanket,' said Lesley. It probably wasn't the first time that her man had ended up sleeping on the couch, pissed. It was now almost 11.30. Carl downed the last of his whisky and picked up his jacket, as Lesley came back down the stairs with the blanket.

‘You sure you won't change your mind? The spare room's there, if you want it.'

He shook his head, afraid to catch Lesley's eye. Sex gripped him by the guts, made his voice thick and uncertain. ‘It's fine. My zonal credit is good until one. I'll just head home, if that's okay.'

Why say that? She was standing next to her unconscious husband, waiting for something to happen, willing it.

‘Thanks for the meal,' he said, pulling on his jacket in the lobby. ‘Best bit of flesh I've had in a long time.'

Light-hearted. Easygoing. Saying goodnight to a friend. That's all. Simple. Why the fuck use the word ‘flesh'?

‘Goodnight then.' He stepped out into the warm summer night. The earlier rain had all but dried up; Byres Road was ten minutes away and he could grab a cab there. A quick peck on her cheek and he was gone, relief and desire churning within him. Usually, he would have given her a squeeze. But not tonight.

‘Yeah,' Lesley said, watching the retreating figure. ‘Take care.'

7

Most of the office space in the St Vincent Street complex had not been let since it was built. The gleaming glass had lost its shine over the last twenty years and some of the upper floors on the east side had not been fully weatherproofed. It was watertight at the other end of the building, but lately the lights had begun to flicker every time the wind rose, and there was now a drip from the ceiling near the lift.

Today, there were two large vans parked outside, half on the pavement. Eric had said Nigel at the PLC had arranged some building repairs, without any thought of a quid pro quo, of course. How nice of the man to think of the struggling newspaper without any thought of what he could get in return.

The sudden thought of driving – no, zooming – along by Loch Lomond occurred to him, then he killed the image. Best not to get carried away. There were the biosec checkpoints to get through first. Once CivCon saw who was trying to leave the city they might get antsy, focus on a minor irregularity just to frustrate him. Carl might have to spend all day waiting at their Clydebank compound for nothing, and end up back at the office without ever getting to enjoy the twists and turns of Loch Lomondside. They might just do that, the bastards, and enjoy every minute of it. He made his way down to the basement car park. The one and only company car, one tyre flat, hadn't moved for months and no one had seen fit to throw a dust sheet over it. Carl ran his finger down the windscreen and drew a clear line through the dust. He blew his finger and wiped it on his jeans. Beeped the lock, chucked his
rucksack on the back seat, and got into the driver's seat. It still had that clean car smell, but the air was a little fusty.

Sitting there, his hands on the wheel, all the functions of the car still to be awoken, it was hard not to think of the long road north, music blaring and the miles blurring past. Almost a year since he'd driven a car. The smell of the interior and the smooth curves, the seat adjustable to the perfect driving position; it was all there to command and enjoy.

The stair door clanged shut and someone came walking across the car park's bare concrete, clip-clopping a scatter of echoes. A stocky man in black biker's leather, a man that wasn't Eric.

Carl got out of the car. ‘Christ,' he said, smiling. ‘It's Santa Claus himself.'

‘How's it going, big man?'

‘Fine, Eddie. Yourself?'

‘Not bad. Still fighting the good fight.'

Carl smiled. ‘Yeah, if the price is right.'

Eddie grinned, a gold tooth glinting. ‘Eric tells me you're after a bit of anonymity.' He took a slender black case, no more than seven inches long, from his inside pocket, the leather jacket creaking over his bulk. ‘Pop the bonnet, will you?'

Carl did as he was told.

Eddie put on a pair of rubber gloves, then set to work. From the open case he unwound two thin black wires that ended in crocodile clips. Under the bonnet he grunted and footled about in the guts of the engine.

‘So how's life treating you, Eddie?'

‘Could be worse. Countermeasures is the place to be.'

‘So I gather.'

With a bit of effort, Eddie found the contacts and attached the clips. ‘It puts food on the table.'

‘How's the family?'

‘Still giving me grief, but I wouldn't change them for the world.'

‘That true?'

‘I'm always open to offers.' Eddie grinned. ‘But so far none have come in.' He touched the screen in the little black case, some kind of meter, and watched the results. ‘Good,' he said. ‘Now. I've inserted an impedance circuit into the RF tracker, to create a feedback current. Wait until you're past the emergency perimeter and out near Loch Lomond. Keep an eye on your bars and when you hit a notspot keep above forty and switch the engine off for a couple of seconds, then back on. You might smell a bit of burning, but don't worry. It's only the RF tracker circuit shorting. If you get stopped by CivCon, which is highly unlikely outside the cities, it's just a burned-out circuit and you had nothing to do with it.'

‘Nice one,' said Carl. ‘Thanks.'

‘Thank Eric, he paid for it. He must have friends on the board.'

‘Yeah, well, I suppose he must . . . if only you could give me a new ID.'

‘There're guys that can do that for you, no bother. But I doubt if the paper's budget will stretch to it. CivCon are sharp, but not as sharp as they think. There're ways round most things, even who you are. So what's the scoop, scoop?'

‘Not sure. A tip-off. It might be nothing.'

Eddie handed over the ignition key. ‘The usual, then. This should get you up north and back. There's a full month's quota of carbon credits on there as well.'

Carl got into the car, inserted the key, and opened the window. Over the internal speakers an expressionless female voice said: ‘Autodriver engaged. Smart screen display on. Fuel quota at maximum. Tyre reflation in progress. Pressure now optimal. EMS at 95.6 per cent efficiency. Have a safe journey.'

Thumbs up to Eddie. Let's burn rubber.

‘Not today, honey,' said Carl, switching off the autodriver. It was easy enough to feel powerless without a car doing all the driving into the bargain.

‘Autodriver disengaged. Smart screen display off,' the female voice told him in a disapproving tone. He slipped into first gear, and the car went lurching forward. The engine stalled. Carl looked rueful and started the car again.

Smoother, and for the first time in a very long time, Carl drove out of the car park and onto the streets of Glasgow. His hangover, not the worst he'd ever suffered, made him jittery.

But there was driving. Music. Control. Purpose.

They're not as clever as they think.

As he drove along Waterloo Street and onto the Kingston Bridge, he couldn't help smiling. The warm weather had brought the people out onto the streets. People, patrols, CivCon, coppers, pigeons, bouncing tits in small tops, council workers, assorted city centre misfits, and the few who still had cash to spend. Everything more or less normal, in an abnormal kind of way.

•

There weren't many other cars. Electric cabs, but not many. Lamppost scanners would already have clocked his car; maybe the drones would keep an eye on him, the city beneath laid out for their inspection. Next month they were launching the aerostat, bristling with sensors, to do the job even better than the fleet of hover-drones.

By now, the first CivCon perimeter would have been alerted; Sentinel's multivariable analysis would have produced a response. Maybe it had already allocated the appropriate resources to deal with him.

The machinery of control would swing into operation, unless it was broken, like the cameras on the South Side. In the old days he would have headed up Woodlands Road, but that now took him too close to Kelvingrove Park and the rationing centre. No chance was he going near there, not at this time of day; the road would be packed, queues out the park gate; maybe trouble,
answered by microwave pain sticks with calibration issues. At least he'd written the story, albeit missing most of what he would like to have said. But there was something out there, a blip on the flatline of controlled reality.

Today he was going to leave it all behind. Today he only had one thing in mind and it was going to happen, surely it was, just like he prayed it would. As he approached the sliproad for the Kingston Bridge he saw the sign:
CIVIL CONTINGENCIES ENFORCE MENT. CHECKPOINT AHEAD (INNER RING) BY ORDER OF THE EMERGENCY AUTHORITY
. A few years ago CivCon had been known as the Civil Contingencies Rapid Reaction Force. Now rapid reaction had morphed into a permanent presence. This subtle descriptive shift always made him smile. By degrees was the screw tightened, turning always, by those in the background, who now took silence and compliance for granted.

Halfway over the Clyde, there were seven other cars in front of him, a few pedestrians on foot, being body-scanned in and out of the Inner Ring. He licked his lips and strained to see ahead, nervous. CivCon could put the kibosh on his drive before it even started.

The cars in front went through okay, each one sprayed in the biosec booth, and the barrier came down again. Darth Vader's Stormtroopers waved and barked, no helmets today because of the baking heat. He slid the window down and held out his ID, took off his sunglasses and waited for the iris scan. The CivCon grunt, Scottish regimental tattoo on his bare forearm, smiled when his hand-held scanner revealed the next driver to be a ‘fucking journalist'.

Carl smiled right back. Without a hint of reaction, he said, ‘Yes. I'm off to cover the opening of the new hydroelectric scheme in the Highlands. An on-the-spot interview with the Minister.'

His goofy smile broadened. This bull-necked prick could pull him in for no reason, find a way to block his progress. The merest
suspicion would be enough. Playing it sullen never worked. They loved to pull up people who tried to ignore them. This one looked at his terminal, saw the letters SIP – Surveillance In Progress – and followed his training to the letter. He looked at Carl, checked inside the car, then stood up to look at his scanner again.

The smile was there, the sly smile around the eyes. I know about you, Mr Carl Shewan, right down to when and where you bought your last pair of socks, every preference and perversion.

‘Transit clearance in order,' said the grunt, glancing up at the sky and handing Carl his ID. ‘Follow the instructions in the biosecurity booth. Have a safe day.'

An awareness passed between them. Carl knew what was going on in the background, and so did the guard. He pocketed his ID and slipped the car into gear. If he'd been heading south, towards white rust instead of away, he'd have to allow himself to be disinfected as well as the car in case of white rust. Doing three miles an hour he followed the green light into biosec, stopped when the red showed, and drove off when the spray had finished, a trail of disinfectant glistening on the road behind him.

He was over the first hurdle and onto the M8; the beginning of the great arterial arc that didn't really stop; that just went on into the Highlands until there was no more road.

He knew CivCon hated a good summer because it brought people out onto the streets, and that was a very bad thing. Being outside was unsafe, as any risk management manual could tell you. Better for order and security if the unemployed stayed in their pits and played the Lottery.

At every major exit there were CivCon Humvees parked up, the new J7 models, unless Carl was mistaken, fresh from the Solihull factory. The guys inside gave him the eye as he passed. He was part way out of the shithole, though he had a nagging doubt about the Outer Ring checkpoint on the Erskine Bridge. Making it through the Inner Ring didn't mean he had escaped altogether.
Maybe this was part of their game: let him through the Inner Ring, turn him back at the Outer.

After eight years controlling the streets, CivCon knew their turf by now, knew where and how to squeeze, always tighter, like a bully not satisfied until he heard a cry of pain. They were here for the long haul and their grip would not easily be loosened. But clearance is clearance, so play the game, you fuckers. Play by your own rules.

Past the airport the buildings thinned out, more land than concrete. Almost there. Fingers and toes crossed. To feel a little freer, to breathe a little easier.