Fifty-First State (41 page)

Looking round the circle of faces, on which the firelight flickered, I saw the toll the past two years had taken. And wondered how many of us, like me, were asking that question, that serious question, the question we ask when shattered and bewildered by events – how did we get from a place of safety to here? And will we ever be able to go back?

Gott said comfortably, ‘Well – we don't want them to be here – and God knows, the Yanks don't want to be any more either. They need their army for the war in Iraq. They're shocked by the hostility
against their troops here. Their men don't like firing on people who look and sound like them. They're plundering the public funds as much as they can, but their bases here are costing them money, they're using contractors to fight in Iraq, and that's costing them, too. With the sanctions, no one is making any money. The Chinese don't like the prospect of a dollar – sterling alliance, so they're making noises about the US repaying its debts to them, which will put America close to bankruptcy. America has done what businesses do when it's expand or go under, but it's not working out that well. Most things,' said Gott the banker, ‘come down to money in the end.'

‘What do they want with a small, pointless island far from home? Which is what a lot of them are already thinking. Their liberals don't like occupying a friendly democracy. And their conservatives have found out they're paying for what remains of our welfare system, including a free health system they haven't got themselves – and abortions. Our only asset is military and as an aid in waging the unclear “war on terror”.'

‘Most of us don't want them here and most of them don't want us, but they're afraid to let us go.'There was a silence. Everyone knew Gott's words would be overheard. The long-range listening devices can cover half a mile and there are few places in cities where anyone feels safe to speak.

‘There has to be an election in three years,' said Julia. ‘It'll be us, under Moreno. No question.' And this was true. Moreno would lead his party towards a victory in the next election and then begin his opposition to the occupation. We should have felt like prisoners with a release date in sight but, and I don't know about the others, I didn't.

‘If the Yanks don't want an election, there won't be an election,' Chloe said with certainty.

‘I wouldn't put it exactly like that, myself,' her father said. ‘It's just that if there's an election, they'll want it to give them what they want.'

There was a riot that night. We had just gone back through the checkpoint when the barrier across the street was flung open and soldiers began to clatter through. A tank followed after. We could hear the firing a quarter of a mile off. Hear screaming and shouts above the clatter of the helicopters ordered up and now driving like mad, giant bees in the direction of Trafalgar Square.

‘That's the evening wrecked,' Chloe observed. I was too unhappy to speak. And, next day, it was announced that Mark Moreno was dead.

The future Labour leader had been found on a pavement in a narrow street near King's Cross Station. He had been stabbed several times. Reporting the crime, the police added that Mark Moreno had two previous warnings for kerb crawling in the area, always notorious for its on-the
street prostitutes. Moreno's wife denied this. She claimed that he had been assassinated.

The following day, before it was light, Joshua Crane and Edward Gott met by the lake in Victoria Park, Hackney. I had picked them up in Sam's car. We had not detected any following vehicles on the near-empty roads from central London at dawn. We hoped we hadn't been seen and weren't now being overheard. But we couldn't be sure. Gott and Joshua stood looking out over the water at the lawns and trees beyond. Birds were loud, sweet and busy.

‘Do you believe this kerb-crawling story?' Gott said.

‘Of course not,' Joshua said. ‘That's not the question. The question is, who did it?'

‘A consortium of people who want to maintain the occupation,' Gott said. ‘I've heard rumours there's evidence Moreno was killed elsewhere and his body dumped where it was found. I've had Jeremy out since 4 a.m. talking to the whores, pimps, pushers and users in the area, lucky boy.'

‘Let's hope he finds some public-spirited low-life who's prepared to come forward and say what they saw. This is bad, Edward. Very bad. It's an assassination and who's next?'

‘Moreno came to me in January, wanting information to use to impeach Petherbridge. I pushed him off. I told him it was too soon.'

‘How could you have guessed …?'

‘Perhaps I should have guessed,' Gott said. ‘But there's a harmless man dead now and we can't turn back the clock. I don't think we can wait for some sodding election now, as if we were back in the 1980s. Do that, and either you and I are dead, or we'll all end up serfs, or there'll be a bloody revolution. Or all three.'

A slender strip of red was showing all along the eastern horizon. Two ducks landed,
splock,
on the lake.

‘A lot of Americans want to get out,' Gott added.

‘And a lot want to stay. Mark Moreno's widow'll confirm that.'

‘We impeach Petherbridge now,' declared Gott.

‘That's what I've been thinking,' Joshua said. ‘Is it allowed under the Civil Contingencies Act?'

‘Only because they didn't think of it,' Gott told him. ‘But we have to do it fast.'

‘A tribute to Moreno. He was a pain in the arse, but I liked him,' Crane said.

‘Well let's act, or they'll be saying that about you. We can't wait for the election. We have to impeach Petherbridge. And succeed.' Gott began to count on his fingers. ‘There's the money he took to buy the election. I've got all the details on record. Maybe we'll be able to turn up something
about Moreno's death. It was a mistake to dump him so close to an American base, in an area where there are eyes and ears open day and night. Then I'm going to reveal the existence of the stolen tactical nuclear weapon from Hamscott Common.'

‘The what?' Joshua exclaimed.

‘Later,' said Gott. ‘On top of that, I know some very nasty things about Petherbridge's childhood. That'll come in handy now. We'll combine an impeccable legal position with dirty details. Impeach him – get him – then a vote of no confidence. We
will
win. We have to – there's no choice.'

I know what they said, because they told me afterwards. I'd picked them up outside Victoria Station earlier, when it was still dark, and driven them here in my own car. This was an attempt, probably futile, to evade the omnipresent surveillance.

I leaned against a tree, watching the menfolk conferring on serious matters of state – I was tired and afraid. My own name was on a list somewhere, low down, below the fold in the paper. And who could tell, with the US armoured trucks in the streets, constant overflying by planes and helicopters, armed bases everywhere – who could tell if this could be solved by meetings, speeches, declarations, Acts of Parliament, legal judgements from the bench – who could tell if in the end it wouldn't come down to blood, not words?

Some were getting jobs and money from the occupation, some wanted to resist. A guerilla war is all too often a civil war. If it came, it would be an urban war, fought in streets, not through fields or mountains. It would split families and fill hospitals. The country would be torn, anguished, and men, women and children would die indiscriminately.

I saw a police car parked behind my vehicle now and walked over the grass to tell Joshua and Gott that it was there. I'd overheard the last part of the conversation and I said, ‘What if Petherbridge won't let you impeach him? He's got an army now.'

There was a silence. ‘We can't stop now. It's do or die,' said Joshua. There was another pause.

‘Who could ask for anything better?' said Lord Gott.

Then we all walked, not unobserved, over the grass as the sky lightened.

HILARY BAILEY
was born in 1936 and was educated at thirteen schools before attending Newnham College, Cambridge. Married with children, she entered the strange, uneasy world of '60s science fiction, writing some twenty tales of imagination which were published in Britain, the USA, France and Germany. She has edited the magazine New Worlds and has regularly reviewed modern fiction for the Guardian. Her first novel was published in 1975 and she has since written twelve novels and a short biography. She lives in Ladbroke Grove, London.

Discover books by Hilary Bailey published by Bloomsbury Reader at
www.bloomsbury.com/HilaryBailey
After the Cabaret
All the Days of My Life
As Time Goes By
A Stranger to Herself
Cassandra
Connections
Elizabeth and Lily
Fifty-First State
Hannie Richards
In Search of Love, Money and Revenge
Mrs Rochester
Polly Put the Kettle On
Mrs Mulvaney
The Cry from Street to Street
Miles and Flora
The Strange Adventures of Charlotte Holmes

This electronic edition published in 2012 by Bloomsbury Reader
Bloomsbury Reader is a division of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc, 50 Bedford Square,
London WC1B 3DP
First published in Great Britain 2008 by Severn House Publishers Ltd
Copyright © 2008 Hilary Bailey
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ISBN: 9781448209309
eISBN: 9781448209316
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