Pecking Order (15 page)

'OK.' From the bag in front of him Eric took out the other pay-as-you-go mobile he'd bought. Earlier that day he'd charged it up, but hadn't added any credit to it. Next he took out a charger. 'This is the phone I'll contact you on. You don't need to know its number. All you do is keep it plugged in and out of sight. Now where are your plug sockets?'

Rubble pointed to the wall by the small cupboard next to him. '

‘Perfect, we'll plug it in there and put the phone in the cupboard, out of sight. When I call you it will be in the evening for a job taking place later that night. Happy?'

'Yeah,' said Rubble enthusiastically, looking at the phone on the table.

'When the phone rings you press this button to answer it and this button to end the call. Now show me. Which button to answer?'

Rubble pointed at the green button.

‘And which button to end the call?'

His finger pointed to the red button.

‘Excellent', Eric continued. 'Now, you're to continue with your job as normal - do everything you usually do. The jobs I'll call you about are just an occasional extra. Payment is in cash at the end of the month. £75 per person you put to sleep, OK?'

Rubble nodded again and then said, 'I'd do it for free.'

'I'm sorry?'

'Serving my country. I'd do it for free.'

'Very...very commendable, thank you,' Eric stuttered. 'Your role is as an injector. I'm the co-ordinator for this area. Most nights, I drive two or three agents like yourself to different jobs. The entire project is top secret, and conducted on a need-to-know basis. I am known as Agent Orange. You will be Agent White. Any equipment I give you is to be returned after each job. You are to keep nothing. Understood?'

Rubble nodded once again.

'For every job I'll pick you up from here and drop you off at the address, or near it. When I drop you off I'll let you know where the subject has left the backdoor key, so you can get into their house. You go inside, administer the injection, lock the door again and wait for me at your rendezvous point. Once I pick you up, you return everything to me and I'll drive you back here. All clear, Agent White?'

Rubble replied, 'Yes Sir, Agent Orange.'

'Good. Now this,' Eric removed a syringe and hypodermic needle from the bag, 'is what you'll put the subjects to sleep with. For real jobs I'll give you a syringe with the correct dose already loaded up. But now I need to train you.' Eric looked to the fridge. 'Could you bring me one of those chickens?'

Eagerly, Rubble got to his feet and did as he was ordered. As he placed the dead bird on the table Eric noticed the grime under his fingernails and ingrained in the wrinkled skin of his knuckles. 'You'll also need to wash your hands thoroughly.'

Looking slightly sheepish, Rubble went over to the sink and poured some washing-up liquid onto a scouring pad. Then he began scrubbing away at his hands as if he was removing rust from an engine part.

Eric pulled open the paper-backed plastic wrapper and removed the syringe. Then he did the same with the needle, pulling off the protective cap and fitting the thin length of metal mounted in its lime green plastic base to the tip of the syringe. 'OK sterile water is perfect for training purposes,' said Eric taking out a small bottle of mineral water from his bag and removing the cap. Next, he lowered the needle towards the neck of the bottle. Like a mosquito's proboscis, the metal tip entered the liquid and Eric drew two millilitres into the barrel. He held it to the light, flicked the plastic side to dislodge any air bubbles at the top, and then gently squeezed the plunger until a single bright bead welled up from the needle's tip. Rubble watched in silent fascination. 'Now, we don't want to cause any pain. So you need to follow this part very carefully.'

Eric cast his mind back to his days as a social worker, and the many home visits where he watched as the district nurse trained a newly qualified student. 'First we'll practice inserting the needle. The key to a successful injection is puncturing the flesh with confidence.' He held up the needle so they could examine the tip. 'You see how the tip is cut away at an angle to form a sharp point?'

Squinting at the fine point of metal, Rubble nodded.

'That's called a chamfered edge. What you do is approach the arm at about this angle,' he held the needle at about 45 degrees to the chicken's thigh, 'and push the very tip in with a firm action like this.' He smoothly inserted the needle about one centimetre into the skin. 'You see how I didn't slide it in too slowly, but I didn't stab it either? Now, you try.'

Rubble held the syringe like it was made of gossamer.

'OK,' said Eric, 'now bring the tip of the needle towards the skin and press it in.'

Eric was surprised at the younger man's deftness of touch; despite his thick, gnarled fingers, he inserted the needle at precisely the right angle and to exactly the right depth.

'Excellent. Now slowly push some water in. That's right, good. Did you feel how you had to push to get the needle through the outer skin?'

Rubble nodded.

'That's just how it feels when you enter the vein on someone's arm. Veins are made up of three layers, so you have to press fairly hard to get the needle through. But once you've punctured it, the needle moves around more easily, so you know you're in.'

He let Rubble practice a few more times then rolled up his sleeve. 'OK, you're ready to try it on me.’ He exchanged the needle for a clean one and refilled the barrel with water. Then he laid his right forearm on the table, underside up. He pointed to the crook of his elbow. 'There's a good vein - easy to see, plump and straight. Run your finger over it. Can you feel it under the skin?'

Rubble cautiously placed a finger on the bluish line and nodded.

'Right, keep your finger there to stop the vein moving about and, with your other hand, insert the needle.'

His face intense with concentration, Rubble brought the needle up against Eric's skin and, a little too firmly, punctured the surface. He didn't stop pressing quite quickly enough and Eric felt the needle pass through the other side of the vein and enter the tissue beyond. A sharp pain shot down into his fingertips and he grimaced.

Rubble looked up and, seeing the pain in Eric's face, pulled the needle straight back out. Blood immediately welled up out of the tiny puncture and began spreading out beneath the flesh in the form of a livid, purple haematoma.

'Not to worry,' said Eric through gritted teeth, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbing at the wound. 'Let's try the other arm.'

They located the same vein on his left arm and this time Rubble completed the injection perfectly. 'Great. Now, you can tell if you're in properly by pulling the plunger out a tiny bit and seeing if any blood enters the barrel.'

Rubble pulled at the 't' shaped top of the plunger and a wisp of red was dragged up into the water. It slowly lost its shape and definition inside the syringe.

'There you are, that's perfect. Now push in a couple millilitres of water.'

Gently, Rubble pushed the plunger in and Eric felt a coldness entering his forearm.

'OK, that's enough. Now you can pull the needle out.'

The metal tip re-emerged from Eric's arm, followed by a tiny dot of blood.

'Well done. You, Agent White, are a natural,' Eric said encouragingly.

Once the man had gone, Rubble stood in the centre of his living room and took several deep breaths. He looked with wonder at the wire for the mobile phone leading unobtrusively into his cupboard. Crouching down, he opened the door and lifted up the handset, testing its weight in his hand, turning it over, smelling the new plastic. Everything was for real, he was actually a Government Agent. 'Hello, Agent White,' he said quietly into the mouthpiece.

He suddenly remembered something, sat down at the table and pulled his sketchpad and pens towards him. Then, selecting a new page, he drew from memory - and with almost perfect accuracy - the crest that had been at the top of the Official Secrets Act he'd signed earlier. Once it was finished, he examined the image of the pair of wings on the star-studded shield, puzzling over the Latin inscription curling on the banner below it,
Per doctrinam ad astra
.

Chapter 22

Clare was smoking a roll-up in the Entertainment Officer's study, nervously looking down on to the flag-stoned concourse leading up to the Union building's main doors. Students hurried in and out of the entrance below, laughing, slapping backs, hugging books: the end of term had given everyone a lift.

Eventually Clare said, 'There's a few people gathering - that crowd over there. Must be at least fifteen lads.'

The Entertainment Officer craned his head back to look out of the window. 'That's Castle Hall’s football team. They always meet there for twelve o'clock on a Saturday.'

‘Oh,' said Clare, suddenly nervous again. Then, to her relief, she spotted three or four people off her course sit down on one of the wooden benches lining the walkway. Clare scanned about for Adele. No sign of her.

Standing up, she jammed the roll-up out in the ashtray on his desk. 'There's some people I know, wish me luck.'

‘Yeah, go for it,' he said without enthusiasm, looking back down at his NME.

Clare picked up the clipboard and half a dozen placards she'd made the previous night and jogged lightly down the stone staircase. 'Excuse me, excuse me,' she called out, manoeuvring her way through the throng of people in the foyer.

As she squeezed past a couple of girls they spotted what she was carrying. 'Rent march?' one said, pointing at the signs under Clare's arm.

'Yeah! We're meeting up outside,' said Clare, carrying on through the doors, anxious that the others might give up and leave before she could get to them. She made her way over to the group on the bench. 'Hi there, it's a good day for it!' she exclaimed cheerily, propping the placards up at the edge of the bench so people could clearly read the bold message of, No Rent Increase!

Her fellow marchers nodded and agreed. One bloke got up to examine how she'd attached the cardboard squares to the lengths of dowelling. Clare recognised him from a previous march against proposals to extend a nearby stretch of motorway. 'Good work, Clare. Is that trenching tape?' he asked, running a finger over the lengths of black sticky plastic securing the signs.

'Um, I don't know Simon. It's just what the man in the shop recommended,' replied Clare, wrong-footed by the question.

The two girls from the Union foyer joined them, and a couple more drifted over from the opposite side of the concourse.

'Hi, thanks for coming,' Clare addressed each one in turn, clutching the clipboard to her chest. 'OK, it's a quarter-to-twelve. Let's put our names down now and it'll get the ball rolling. Er, has anyone got a pen?'

Simon quickly produced one from a pocket of his German Army issue coat. The clipboard was passed round and each person added their name to the printed grid. 'Great, now let's try and get as many people to sign the petition as possible. Then we set off at midday.' The group looked at her uncertainly and Clare realised with dismay that she would have to initiate the proceedings. She picked up one of the placards and holding it by her side, called out to the passing flow of people, 'Help stop the rent increases! Sign our petition now!'

Most suddenly appeared to be deaf, hurrying past with heads down. One or two looked questioningly at her, eyes flicking over the sign, before carrying on regardless. Praying some of the others would join in, she tried again, 'Don't let them rip you off! Stop the rent increases!' She felt herself beginning to flush.

Next to her Simon whispered, 'How much will the rent increase actually be?'

Clare looked at him, 'Oh - nearly ten quid,' she exaggerated.

'Save yourself a tenner! Stop the rent increases!' he shouted aggressively.

The mention of money caused a few people to slow their steps.

A couple stopped further down the concourse to watch.

Seeing the effect this latest cry had, the two girls from the foyer joined in, 'Save yourself a tenner! Stop the rent increases!'

More people slowed and someone said, 'Ten quid? Is that how much it will be?'

Clare tried to answer that it would probably be nearer five a month, but Simon cut in savagely, 'Ten fucking quid a week. A week! It's a piss-take!'

‘Ten quid?' said the person to his mate. 'Fucking outrageous!' He turned to Clare, 'Here, I'll sign.' He grabbed the clipboard and held up one knee for a platform. She saw with relief that the heading she'd typed out the previous night simply read, I oppose the scandalous rent increase in University accommodation.

There was no mention of money.

After scrawling his name and address, he handed the clipboard to his mate who did the same. 'Cheers guys,' said Clare, 'we're marching at twelve.'

All of a sudden they looked uncomfortable. 'We've got some stuff to sort out ...' one said edging away.

Simon shouted above their excuse, 'Save a tenner! Sign now!'

More people stopped to add their signatures and Clare took a thankful step back.

From her left a voice said, 'Looks like you're on a roll.'

She looked down and saw Patricia Du Rey smiling up at her, a silk scarf around her neck, expensive handbag over one shoulder. However often she saw Patricia, it never failed to amaze Clare how tiny her tutor was.

‘Pat! Hi - are you joining us then?'

She shook her head regretfully, 'I've got to get to the airport, Michel is flying in from Brussels at 12:45 and I only have him for the weekend.'

'Ah, that's nice,' replied Clare.

‘But I'll gladly sign.' She took a gold pen from her bag and Clare retrieved the clipboard from Simon. 'Thanks for your support,' she said.

'My pleasure Clare. It's good to see some students still taking an active involvement in issues.'

As she added her name to the petition, Clare noticed her newly-painted lilac coloured nails. 'That's a beautiful shade of polish.’

Patricia held up one hand. 'Do you think so? Thanks. I've just had them done in that new place by Tesco Metro.' She lowered her voice so only Clare could hear. 'If you go in this week, they'll also do your toenails for free.' She winked at Clare, then waved goodbye to the group, heels clicking on the slabs of stone as she walked away.