Experiment With Destiny (14 page)

“But I know what Eleanor did…what you…what your people ordered her to do. I know what happened at Abamae! How do you know I won’t tell the whole fucking world?” The burden of his torment was finally too much and Steven broke, sobbing into his trembling hands.

“What is there to tell, Mr Elan?” said the man in black, quietly. “And who do you suppose will listen? You have a great deal to lose, Mr Elan, not least your credibility. That is important in your profession, is it not? Think it through.” He reached out a hand and squeezed Steven’s arm reassuringly. “I know you won’t tell a soul.”

* * *

Steven Elan read the letter again. He had read it a dozen times or more since arriving at his desk on Monday morning to find it nestled atop his keyboard. There was no mistaking the imperious corporate branding of International News Broadcasting on the letterhead and he felt certain the signature of the personnel director for INB’s Welsh region at the bottom of the page was genuine enough. There was no postmark on the plain white envelope in which it had been sealed, but that was because it had been hand delivered to the side lodge earlier that day. It was simply addressed to: Steven Elan, South Wales Echo; and marked ‘private and confidential’ in bold black letters.

It was unusual to receive items of personal post in such a way, but it was more unusual to be invited to an interview for a vacancy he did not know existed and certainly had not applied for. He had been ‘highly recommended’, the letter stated, though it had not specified by whom. Steven felt the reassuring weight of the letter and its envelope. Quality stationery was a sure sign of a powerful company and INB was nothing if not powerful.

It was a shame Jerry was not around to see the letter but Jerry had phoned in sick for the first time since anyone could remember. It was an uncharacteristic absence that would last, Steven suspected, until the day of the interview if not until his inevitable appointment as a reporter at INB. Giles would also have been impressed, except that Giles was too busy adjusting to his sudden promotion and resulting transfer to party headquarters in London to be contacted, as Steven had discovered when he tried to ring earlier.

The news of Jerry’s absence and Giles’ promotion prompted him to ring Ysbyty Glebe Caerdydd that morning to inquire about Heggie’s health. Steven was not the least surprised to learn Heggie had suffered a massive stroke on Sunday evening and died peacefully in his sleep. His next call was to INB’s Welsh region headquarters at Culverhouse Cross to confirm his attendance at the interview. It would have been a futile gesture to refuse, he reasoned.

The afternoon dragged with little to occupy his mind except a handful of Press Association re-writes and the hourly rounds of calls to the emergency services. Steven did not mind. He was in no hurry to return to the loneliness of his cold Ely flat. He felt numb, empty. He had felt that way since the Mercedes Benz dropped him home and drove away. It was, he told himself, a kind of shock. People who narrowly escape death are bound to feel shock.

Steven Elan was not ungrateful. He knew only too well how close to death he had come. It was as if someone had switched on a light and, for a second or two, he had seen the real world, stared headlong into its twisted, rotten underbelly, and then the light had been extinguished. He had glimpsed reality. He had opened the door to a terrifying abyss of corruption and conspiracy and nothing would seem the same again. Steven Elan would carry on living, albeit a tainted life in which the half shadows of menace and manipulation would forever haunt the periphery of his vision. He knew they were there, though he could not see them, point to them, or prove they existed.

“I know you won’t tell a soul,” he whispered to himself. The man in black was right. He would never dare to. And nobody would believe him if he did. He thought of Jerry, the old newshound. “The pen is mightier than the sword,” he would say. “Remember, we always have the last word, kid.” If only Jerry knew. If only someone had told him that the people with the swords own the people with the pens.

The vidiphone rang, startling him. It was five past seven. How long had he been staring trance-like at his computer screen? He should have finished and gone home an hour ago. Menna, who must have started her shift at six, reached across his desk and accepted the call.

“What the fuck’s wrong with you?” she hissed. “South Wales Echo, can I help you?”

“Hi, Steve…Menna…Jeez, so poor you’re sharing phones now?” It was the police press officer. “I dunno which one of you wants this but there’s been an incident at the National Museum. A policewoman has been killed and a security guard was badly injured. Some freak of nature’s escaped with some of the exhibits. I know it’s too late for you guys but we’re putting out an appeal on TV, radio and Internet and I thought it polite to let you know.”

“I’m off home,” said Steven, pushing himself up from his desk. “I’ll leave you in Menna’s capable hands. Goodnight.” He collected his coat and made his way toward the exit. He began to whistle the theme tune to Eurostate Today. “This is Steven Elan reporting…”

* * *

Part 3

The Sad Skinhead

VII

THE final whistle was the signal. Ivan Berking tensed. He knew it would come at any second now. The digital clock above the scoreboard read 16:46. The scoreboard read Merthyr Tydfil 1 – Hereford United 3. Another dismal result, he thought, his intense blue eyes dropping back to the rain-soaked pitch. The referee was checking his watch. Ivan stared at the enclosure behind the opposite goal, known as the Holloway Stand. A small but enthusiastic contingent of away supporters were on their feet, singing and dancing in celebration of certain victory. The remainder of the crowd, some 2,000 or so, were silent. The ball was struck with a resounding thud as a Hereford defender cleared yet another probing attack just yards from the goal. The ball came down near the centre circle, then three sharp bursts and it was all over.

Ivan had cleared the wooden barrier before the final burst had ended, leaping toward the high fence that penned the home supporters in. Clearly marked against the white and black of the Hereford fans was the Holloway Stand gate steward, his luminous yellow mac glowing under the spotlights. Bodies moved aside and Ivan was upon him in an instant, taking him completely by surprise. They crashed against the fence as Ivan wrapped one arm around the man’s neck. With the added strength of amphetamines rushing through his veins, Ivan wrenched up the protective metal grill on the man’s helmet and twisted the stun baton free from his captive’s belt. As he pushed the stubby black rod towards the steward’s face, Ivan regretted that he could not see the man’s expression. He imagined it was one of hopeless fear. Then Ivan clenched his teeth as he rammed the baton into the steward’s mouth. There was a brief flash of sparks then Ivan felt his captive’s full weight against him. He let the body slump to the ground.

“Steward down in the Holloway Stand… Steward down in the Holloway Stand.” Ivan picked up the hand held device and hurled it over the fence. He looked around. There was panic in the enclosure as fans struggled against each other to move further away from the fence. Ivan felt exposed, but that was part of the plan. He could see Pigpen and Scabies waiting at the edge of the unsettled crowd. Behind him, a dozen more stewards ran towards the Holloway Stand Gate, crossing the wet pitch from the security tunnel. Any second now they would release the electronic locks on the gate to allow these men in. Their fallen comrade groaned loudly on the floor. Ivan’s boot caught him against the ribs. Just for good measure, he thought.

The stewards were at the gate, there was a buzz as the locks went off. Ivan filled his lungs then let out what seemed to him was a blood curdling war cry. He arrived at the gate the same instant as Pigpen and his friend Scabies. Their combined weight flung the gate open and they charged onto the pitch. 

The stewards turned away from the enclosure to face them, knowing that they out-numbered the yobs four to one. That was their mistake. With the gate still bent from the impact a dozen more skinheads broke from the cage and fell upon the men from behind.  The sodden pitch was now the scene of an ugly battle as stewards, armed with stun batons, fought to control an ever-growing number of knife and chain-wielding thugs. Under the glare of the stark white floodlights, the confusion became worse as other fans left the stand and poured onto the pitch.

Ivan was enjoying himself. His fists, smeared with his own and others’ blood, swung wildly in the air. His elbows lashed out and his heavy boots pounded against body after body. Once, someone caught him on the shoulder with a stun baton, and the shock jolted his rib cage and stung his neck. He toppled to the wet turf, remembering to roll as his assailant fell upon him. As the steward looked around to see where his victim had gone, Ivan curled his boot around the helmet with a sickening crack. Now, sprawled on the grass where Ivan should have been, there was nothing he could do as the blows rained down against his unprotected torso.

Ivan looked round. There, at the centre of the pitch, stood Simon. His face was hidden beneath a balaclava but there was no mistaking that proud stance, alone in the midst of the fighting. Pigpen had broken off from the scrap and joined him in the centre circle. Ivan watched them both, tall in the arena of conflict like gladiators for the cause. Simon surveyed the stadium, dwelling a fraction longer of the tangle of bodies to his left and right. The rain beat against his black combat jacket and dark grey fatigues. He was tall and thin, his straightness like a focus for those around him. Ivan admired him.

Ivan watched as Simon drew a megaphone to his uncovered lips and raised the banned Union Jack over his head. Pigpen paced anxiously, the bloodied knife outstretched in his boulder-like fist. He dared anyone to approach his leader.

“People of Britain,” Simon’s voice boomed around the stadium as he addressed the press box and camera positions. “Today is the day of reckoning!” The fighting had stopped. All eyes were on the hooded figure at the centre of the field. “It is time to throw off the chains of Eurostate… it is time to repel the invaders from our land…it is time to take back what is ours!” There was a loud cheer from a large section of the crowd who were now in the pitch. Ivan found himself shouting in support. “But we can only liberate our nation by violence and revolution…the authorities will not let us have our country back.”

The figure dropped the Union Jack and pulled from his pocket another flag. This time is was the Eurostate banner – the circle of twelve gold stars on the deep blue background. The sinister prophet produced a cigarette lighter and held it to one corner of the Eurostate flag.

“Rise up Britons! Rise up and make this nation great once more!” The words echoed around the ground. The lighter sparked and the flame caught the edge of the flag.

“Death to Eurostate!” screamed one of the skinheads just yards away from Ivan. The petrol-soaked cloth of the flag ignited and the dark prophet waved the blazing banner in the air before flinging it away when it became too hot.

Simon picked up the Union Jack and ran towards the players’ tunnel, Pigpen in his wake. Ivan was after them immediately, with Scabies and a few of the others close behind. Once more the fighting raged, and as the last folds of blue cloth burned against the soft turf, the ringleaders slipped into obscurity and made their way from the scene.

“You were fucking shite, Topper!” Ivan shouted as he ran past the startled player emerging from the showers. “We’ll be back in the pissing Dr Martens League if you don’t get your shit together!” Ivan’s voice trailed off. The Martyrs skipper frowned wondering how the hell the bloodied yob managed to get in there. Ivan caught up with the others further along the subterranean corridors. Nobody had bothered to pursue them. They were huddled in a shadowy chamber – the fusty smell of old trainers emanating from the rusting lockers along one wall. There was a pair of heavy wooden doors at the far end of the chamber. They were bolted closed.

Simon pulled off the balaclava mask and stuffed it inside his combat jacket.

“Are we all here?” he asked. In the half light his cold blue eyes searched each face. Pigpen was at his side…Scabies an arm’s length away. Foggy and Blackbeard were leaning against the lockers and Ivan panted to regain his breath at the chamber’s entrance. “Foggy and Blackbeard, take the flag and the megaphone back to the den. Scabies and Ivan make your way to the Crown. Pigpen and I will catch you up later.” They all nodded and murmured in agreement. His young, clean-shaven complexion broke into a broad smile. “Well done lads!” It was all the praise they needed. Their chests swelled with pride. They would have died for Simon if it was required.

Pigpen concealed his blade along the length of his boot, then reached out and drew back the bolts. His thick frame caught the amber streetlight as he cautiously pulled back one of the heavy doors. “All clear.” he said quietly, and one by one they left the musty chamber. They emerged along an alley that ran between two rows of terraced houses. At the end of the alley they were out onto the street. Beyond the high walls of the stadium they could still hear shouts and screams from inside, and now there was the distant wail of sirens.

“Fucking pigs!” cursed Ivan. They made their way across a piece of waste ground that was once a call centre, past a bingo hall then along the red-bricked rows of houses towards the town centre. There were no stewards patrolling the streets near the grounds, they were still busy inside Rhydycar Park. Ivan and his friends were able to mix back into the streams of supporters now leaving the stadium from the Blaketon and Addison stands – traditionally free of any hooligan element.

As they approached the town centre police cars screamed by, their blue beacons flashing against the early night and their sirens shrill to the ear. Ivan and Scabies turned right along the main road and made their way toward the Fountain. Foggy and Blackbeard were lost in the shuffle of disappointed Martyrs fans who were even now puzzling over the ugly resurgence of football violence, as just witnessed, against the backwash of the 3-1 defeat. Simon and Pigpen turned back and headed toward the ground.

The Crown was virtually empty but for a handful of ageing drunkards who spent most of their waking hours swilling the stale beer and polluting the air with blue tobacco smoke. Ivan bought the round – two pints of cheap lager – and offered his card to the barman. While the barman ran it through the till, Ivan checked the shady corners of the pub. Scabies had taken up a table at the far end and was arguing with one of the drunks about which channel the screen should be set to.

“Been in a scrap, butty?” Ivan looked to the barman, a knotted middle-aged man whose belly hung in folds over his belt. The man was looking down at Ivan’s bloodied knuckles.

“Yeah! Fuckin’ shites them Hereford fans…got me on the way out!” Ivan’s shaved head bobbed nervously…the adrenaline and amphetamines still rushing through his head.

“I heard there was some trouble there…heard the sirens go by. Police don’t normally go down to matches these days do they?” Ivan shook his head and picked up his card, stuffing it into the back pocket of his bleached jeans.

“Na! But them away fans are animals…fucking animals…the stewards couldn’t handle ‘em.” Ivan took the two pint glasses from the bar and he sipped the thin white head from one. “Cheers!” he said, his eyes holding the barman for a second. He’d rather have put his fist into the centre of that bland expression, he thought, but right now he could do without the hassle.

Scabies had won the argument and the over-sized television screen was switched to the Eurosat Sports channel. Ivan placed the drinks on the table and pulled out a stool, scraping it along the bare floorboards.

“How’s it looking,” he said. Pulling out a packet of cigarettes from his donkey jacket and flicking two onto the table.

“Bit of a pisser,” said Scabies, not taking his eyes from the screen. “Rushden won, Macclesfield won…we’re fucking ten points adrift now.” Ivan studied the shock-haired gaunt face of his friend. There were dark grooves beneath the eyes – the signs of continued substance abuse and lack of sleep.

“Bastard, eh?” The sadness of defeat was beginning to settle upon him in the afterglow of the violence. The others didn’t care about the result…they were all out of the cause. But Ivan and Scabies were true supporters, and that’s what made them closer than the others. Ivan began to consider the terrible implications of this afternoon’s 3-1 defeat, the memory of Simon’s orchestrated thuggery already growing dim. The screen was alight with the classified football results, starting with the Premier League.

“Manchester United 1, Chelsea 0…Cardiff City 2, Aston Villa 1…” Good for City, he mused. “Blackburn Rovers 1, Fulham 3…Liverpool 0, Swansea City 2…” Ivan could remember the days when the Martyrs were on the verge of reaching the big time – just four seasons ago. Francis Blaketon, a local entrepreneur, had ploughed millions into the club in honour of his late father Derek, a regular first-teamer in the Dr Martens League days. The money gave the Martyrs new players and a new stadium. Two seasons later they reached the Conference – beating Newport in the final game to finally lift them from the doldrums of football. Ivan could remember his Dad, coming home from a match and then rushing off to the pub to celebrate that historic win. Blaketon became chairman and gave the club a new image, a new look and new hope. That was when Ivan started going with his Dad.

He was not disappointed. In successive seasons, the Martyrs had climbed to Division Two and were knocking at the First Division door. Ivan’s Dad didn’t live long enough to enjoy that moment. A heart attack at work ended his life well before they reached the play-offs. Ivan stopped going to school and started hanging around with some of the hard core supporters – one of whom was Scabies. Merthyr won the first two-legged play-off against Sheffield Wednesday but lost the Millennium Stadium final to Wrexham.

Ivan wept that day…and that was the day Scabies introduced him to Simon. In the same haste they had scaled those dizzy heights, the Martyrs plunged back down the divisions, relegated in each of the last two seasons. Now, half-way through the season, they were without a win, just six points to their credit and were facing the final humiliation of returning to ignominy.

“Fucking wanker that Blaketon,” said Ivan, before gulping down half his pint. “Why did he bugger off just cos we missed that one shot? If he hadn’t taken his money we’d have another chance.” Scabies turned away from the television and picked up one of the two cigarettes.

“Got a light?” he said, his squeaky voice sounding dry. Ivan obliged then lit his own cigarette. “We’ve had it this season…none of those tossers can play bloody football.” He continued while Scabies sipped his drink. “We’ll be out the Conference and fucking bankrupt…unless we get a good FA Cup run.” Ivan thought about the coming match on Tuesday night – a second round FA Cup replay away to fellow Conference side Worcester City…not too many miles across the border. The third round draw was tomorrow afternoon, live on Eurosat Sports, and the chances of pulling one of the big clubs were high. It was just a matter of getting past Worcester, who had drawn 0-0 with the Martyrs just a week ago at Rhydycar Park.