The facility, p.2
The Facility, page 2
‘Hm? What’s that?’
‘Lunch, minister. It’s all prepared.’
Jenkins shakes his head. His jowls wobble. ‘Thank you, no. I’m due to meet my sister. She lives in a village not far from here, as it happens. Although it’s all relative, I suppose, in country like this. I say not far but it’s forty miles at least.’
‘Very sensible, minister. Combining business with a little pleasure.’
Jenkins glances at Graves as though to gauge his tone. Graves keeps his face expressionless and the minister gives a grunt. ‘There’ll not be much pleasure, Graves, I assure you. Aside from the company, I don’t suppose the cuisine at the local brasserie is up to much. Given the choice, I would rather suffer the delights of your canteen.’
Graves inclines his head. ‘I shall pass on the message,’ he says. ‘Our chef, I am sure, will appreciate the compliment.’ He has gone too far this time but he pretends not to notice the minister’s scowl. ‘The door is just ahead. Please, allow me.’
The rain has indeed stopped. The clouds seem to have followed its descent, however, turning the courtyard into a basin of mist. Even from the edge of the covered walkway, they can barely see across to the arches opposite. Above them, the ragged line of the second-floor windows is visible but the pitched roof and corner turrets are nothing more than shadows.
Jenkins jabs his chin towards the centrepiece of the quad: a fountain, depicting Neptune in a chariot behind three horses. ‘A touch extravagant, would you not say?’
‘It is hideous, I know. The whole building, really, is an architectural chimera. His Majesty, for one, would not approve. There’s Gothic here, Romanesque there, Palladian and Tudor in the outbuildings. None of it original, of course. Except for the staff quarters, which were built in the fifties.’
‘You got it working, though. You left the damp but fixed the fountain.’
‘It was no great expense, minister. We felt it would be beneficial. The sound of running water, a place for the men and women to gather. You understand, I am sure.’
‘They are prisoners, Graves.’
‘They will be imprisoned, minister. It is perhaps not quite the same thing.’
‘Guff,’ says Jenkins. ‘Of course it’s the same thing.’
Graves gestures to an opening in the grey-stone wall. ‘We can pass around and through the gateway if you would like to see the rest. There is no shelter past the main building but from the passageway you will be able to see the layout of the grounds beyond.’
‘No need.’Jenkins wipes a thumb across the face of his watch. ‘I am sure it is satisfactory. Everything seems more than satisfactory. Except for that damp,’ he adds, raising a finger. ‘Be sure to see about that damp.’
‘Indeed, minister. I will ensure it is attended to. And lunch. You are adamant I cannot persuade you?’
‘Just my things, if you please. My overcoat is in your office. This way, is it?’ Jenkins points the way he is facing.
‘If you’ll follow me,’ says Graves and he leads off in the opposite direction.
Burrows is behind him, his pimpled nose pressed to the glass. He snorts periodically, a prompt for Graves to solicit his opinion. Graves is careful not to. He keeps his attention on the papers spread across his desk.
‘Thirty minutes, would you say? Thirty-five?’
‘He was here a good hour,’ says Graves. He stacks a folder in the pile to his right, picks another from the pile to his left and opens it in the space between.
‘Not including the time he spent on the phone, I mean. Thirty-five minutes, by my reckoning, at the very most. And we’ve been preparing, what? Six weeks if you count the renovations.’
‘It’s his prerogative.’ Graves uncaps his pen, makes a note of a name on his pad. He closes the folder he has in front of him and sets it on the right-hand pile.
‘We bought steak. Howard did. It’s not as though they’ve given us money to waste.’
‘It will not go to waste, I am sure.’
‘You asked him, though? You told him Howard had prepared lunch?’
‘Twice,’ says Graves. ‘Three times, in fact. It was beginning to sound suspicious.’
Burrows turns back to the window, though Jenkins’s car is long gone. Graves glances at his assistant. There is a haze of condensation on the pane in front of him, thickening with each outward breath, ebbing as he inhales.
‘Satisfactory,’ says Burrows, still staring at the gravel drive. ‘That’s the word he used?’
‘He said more than satisfactory, John. More than.’
‘Did he mention anything else?’
Graves sighs. He shuts the folder in front of him and sets it on the pile to his right. He puts down his pen. ‘Like what?’
‘I don’t know. Anything. There must have been something that made an impression.’
‘The water pressure. In the accommodation wing.’
‘What about it?’
‘It made an impression.’
‘What about the fountain? Did you show him the fountain?’
‘I did.’
‘And? What did he say?’
‘He wondered whether it might be a touch extravagant.’
‘Extravagant?’ Burrows spins from the window. ‘What’s that supposed to mean? It’s running water! Did you say to him it was running water?’
Graves nods.
‘And he understood the connotations? He understood the subtlety?’
‘It’s a fountain, John. It’s a naked god, ten feet high. It’s not subtle.’
‘I meant the calming effect!’
‘I know what you meant,’ Graves says. ‘And you are right to be proud of the idea. Let’s leave it at that, shall we?’
Burrows frowns, turns away. He mutters something Graves does not catch. Graves can feel himself becoming infected with his assistant’s irritation, though it is Burrows’s petulance that grates on him the most.
‘Really, John,’ he says, knowing he should resist, ‘what did you expect? A ribbon and some oversized scissors?’
‘No,’ says Burrows. ‘Of course not.’
‘What then?’
‘Some recognition. That’s all. We’ve done what they asked us to do and we’ve done it on time, in budget and without a single leak.’
‘Which means we’ve done what we’re getting paid to do. Nothing more. You knew the terms when you accepted this post. You knew and you accepted it anyway.’
‘They barely gave me a choice.’
‘One always has a choice, John.’
Burrows makes to answer back but Graves cuts him off. ‘Enough,’ he says. ‘You’ve made your point. We have work to do.’
Burrows moves away from the window. He slumps into his boss’s reading chair and tucks his outsized hands between his knees. His feet turn inwards and meet toe to toe. ‘Everything’s ready. What more is there to do?’
There are two more folders for Graves to check. He opens them in turn, content to let Burrows wait while he works. He adds one of the names to the list in his notebook, then straightens the pile of folders by his right hand and taps it with the pen in his left. ‘These names,’ he says. ‘They will all be in the first batch?’
Burrows shrugs. ‘I think so.’
Graves snaps before he can stop himself. ‘Sit up straight, man. Answer properly. Talk to me properly.’
Burrows slides upright in the leather chair.
‘These names,’ Graves repeats. ‘Will they all be in the first batch?’
Burrows nods once, rather precisely. ‘Yes, sir. That’s what they told me.’
‘How many exactly?’
‘Fifty-seven. Mostly men, a handful of women.’
‘And how many to follow after that?’
‘Twenty-nine, they said. But that may change.’
There are twelve names on Graves’s list: ten men and two women. He tears the page from his notebook and slides it across the desk. ‘Bunk these people separately. Just for the time being.’
‘Separate from each other or separate from the rest of the prisoners?’
‘Give them their own rooms. Keep them in the main wing but I don’t want them sharing.’
‘All right,’ says Burrows. He stands and takes the list and checks the names but does not ask his boss’s reasoning. Possibly he does not need to; more likely he is wallowing still in his sulk.
‘Also,’ Graves says, ‘have someone take a look at the plastering outside room twelve. Probably there’s a drain overflowing somewhere. Fix it, paint it. Check the rest of the corridor too.’
‘Yes, sir. Is that everything, sir?’
There is a note to his assistant’s tone that Graves does not appreciate. ‘No, John, it is not. This project, this facility: it is not a game.’
Burrows draws back his shoulders. ‘I realise that.’
‘Well, then,’ says Graves. ‘I hope you realise too that when these people arrive here they will be angry. We cannot afford to let their anger get out of hand—’
‘The staff are well equipped. They are well trained.’
‘We cannot afford to let their anger get out of hand but we must respond with equanimity too.’
Burrows narrows his eyes. ‘I’m not sure I follow.’
‘Talk to the staff, John. Remind them that the men and women in our charge are human beings. They are not criminals. I would like everyone to remember that.’
‘Yes, sir. I am sure it will not be a problem.’ Burrows folds the list and sharpens the crease. He makes to leave.
‘One more thing,’ Graves says. ‘They are dying, John. The people who will arrive here: they are dying. They might not know it yet but that’s the truth of it.’ He takes the cap off his pen and turns to a fresh sheet in his notebook. ‘Please,’ he says. ‘Remember that too.’
‘Who is she?’
‘Tom, please. You’re practically sitting on my lap.’
Tom edges away, careful not to forsake the cover of his colleague’s monitor. ‘Amy?’ he says and he repeats: ‘Who is she?’
The woman over at Tom’s desk gives the impression of being annoyed with him even before she has realised he is in the same room. Her gaze does not settle but tugs her one way and then the other in her seat. Only her right arm remains anchored, to allow her fingertips to beat against his desk. The doors to the newsroom swing open and she turns, then turns back. The doors open once more and once more she glances across. She is like a spaniel, Tom decides, lurching every time its owner fakes to throw the ball. She is like a spaniel, more to the point, tiring of the game and just about ready to bite.
‘She looks angry,’ says Tom. ‘Don’t you think she looks angry?’
Amy peeks, then returns her gaze to her screen. ‘She looks like someone who’s been made to wait for an hour and a half.’
‘She’s been waiting for me for an hour and a half?’
‘Uh huh.’
‘That can’t be good.’ Tom slides behind the screen again as the woman turns his way. Amy jabs a bony elbow into his hip.
‘I’ve got a deadline, Tom.’
‘Did you get her name at least? What’s her name?’
Amy’s eyes find the gap between her glasses and her poker-straight fringe. ‘I assumed she was a friend. You really don’t know who she is?’
Tom starts to answer but Amy’s question prompts a momentary panic. Does he know her? Usually he has a memory for faces, particularly young and attractive ones framed with blonde hair. If he were to pass this woman in the street, however, he would turn only because it would be a shame not to. Clearly, though, she knows him. Which means . . . Well. Which means there is a possibility that—
‘You slept with her.’
Tom looks and Amy is reclining in her chair, arms folded and lips pinched. ‘What?’ he says. ‘No!’
‘You did. You got drunk and you slept with her and you said you’d call her and you never did.’
‘That’s not true!’ Tom glances again at the woman, who is resting her forearms now on her clenched knees. ‘Really, I’m almost certain that’s not true.’
Amy makes a noise like he is something disgusting.
‘I would remember. Believe me.’ Tom’s eyes drift from the woman’s crossed ankles to her collarbone. ‘I definitely would have called her.’
Amy tuts again. She returns her fingers to her keyboard and angles her chair away from him.
‘Amy, please. Go and check. Ask her who she is.’
‘I’ve got a deadline, Tom! Ask her yourself.’
‘You let her in here! You could at least have asked her what she wanted.’
‘She wanted to see you. Oh, and look. Now she has.’ Amy gives him a shove and he steps to brace himself and there is no doubt when he looks that the woman has spotted him. She is standing and peering across. Amy nudges him again and almost as a reflex Tom is following his feet across the office floor and fixing his face with a wary smile.
‘Mr Clarke?’ says the woman as Tom draws near. ‘Tom Clarke?’ Her accent is American: east coast, Tom thinks. She is slightly frayed in her appearance – hair neat but not styled, skin pale and only lightly made up, clothes casual and inexpensive. She is no less attractive than he first judged, however. She simply seems the type who does not feel she has the time to waste with mascara and a set of hair straighteners. In her bearing and her tone, she conveys a sense of purpose that Tom has encountered before – with Amy, for instance, who has only ever reacted to his flirting with disdain; with Katherine Fry, his boss; with his sister, five years his junior but, even Tom would admit, a decade at least more mature – and that does nothing to set him at ease.
‘Er, hi.’
‘I hope you don’t mind me waiting,’ the woman says. ‘Your assistant told me it would be okay.’
‘My assistant?’ Tom tracks the woman’s glance towards Amy’s desk. ‘My assistant,’ he repeats. ‘Yes, of course. No, no problem.’
‘I’m Julia. Julia Priestley.’ The woman holds out her hand and Tom takes it.
‘Hi,’ he says again, more warmly this time. He does not know her. He told Amy he did not and he was right. ‘Please.’ He gestures to the chair behind her. She sits again and Tom looks around for a chair for himself. There is one at the desk opposite and he rolls it across. ‘Can I get you some coffee? I could ask my assistant to fetch us some.’
‘Thank you, no.’
‘Water?’
‘Nothing for me, really. I’d like just a minute of your time, if I may.’
‘By all means,’ says Tom. ‘What can I do for you?’ He props an ankle on his knee and he smiles.
‘It’s about my husband,’ says Julia and Tom checks his grin. He adjusts his pose, dropping both feet to the floor and locking his hands in his lap. ‘I was hoping,’ Julia says. She pauses. ‘I was hoping you could help me find him.’
Tom opens his mouth but he is not sure how to reply. A voice from above his shoulder interrupts before he can find his own. ‘Hi,’ it says. Then, ‘Um.’
Tom turns and sees Terry Williams, sub-editor and serial snacker, standing above him. He holds a coffee and half a croissant and has scabs of pastry at the corner of his mouth.
‘Hi,’ Tom replies. He looks at Julia, then back at Terry. He waits.
‘Um,’ says Terry again. ‘I think that’s my chair.’
‘Oh,’ says Tom. ‘Oh, right.’ He stands. ‘Sorry.’ He wheels the chair back across to Terry’s desk. Terry thanks him and takes a bite of croissant. As he chews he allows his eyes to slide across Julia’s chest. Julia covers herself with the folds of her jacket and Tom flushes, as though he has been caught looking himself. He casts about and spots an empty meeting room on the far side of the office. He gestures towards it. ‘We can talk in there.’
The Libertarian, the political news site for which Tom works, is only published online but still every corner of the office seems somehow to attract newspapers, magazines, scrawled-on Word files and website printouts. Tom clears a corner of the meeting-room table and they sit.
‘I read these,’ says Julia. She opens her bag and unfolds a clipping bearing Tom’s byline. The headline reads, COMMONS CONSENTS TO POLICE CRIMINALITY. ‘You wrote them, right?’ Julia spreads another printout beside the first. LIBERTY INTERNATIONAL BANNED BY LAW IT FOUGHT TO QUASH is the six-month-old story, with an opinion piece stapled to the back: TERRORISM’S TRIUMPH: FEAR, FREEDOM AND THE BIRTH OF A POLICE STATE. Tom glowers in greyscale at the head of the topmost page, through glasses he borrowed from a colleague and beneath hair that was combed for the occasion and Photoshopped – at his request – to seem fairer than its usual fawn.
‘I did.’ Tom pulls the pages towards him and automatically begins to read. He is amazed that TERRORISM’S TRIUMPH turned out as well as it did. He wrote it on the tube, on the way back to the office after a whisky lunch with his favourite PR.
‘They’re good,’ says Julia.
‘Thank you.’
‘You’re right, too. What you say in there. You’re absolutely right.’
‘Well,’ Tom says. ‘I mean, yes, I suppose so. I would certainly hope so.’ He is trying to recall what the first story was about. Katherine, the website’s editor, liked it too, he remembers. The praise, though, is the only thing about it that stands out in his mind.
‘They’re the reason I’m here,’ Julia is saying. ‘These articles. I thought, well. I thought the man who wrote these might be able to help me.’
‘Your husband,’ says Tom. ‘You’re looking for your husband.’
Julia nods. Then she shakes her head. ‘Not quite. I mean, yes, that’s kind of right.’ Tom frowns and she shakes her head again, as though to erase what she has already said. ‘I know where my husband is, Mr Clarke.’
‘Tom, please. Mr Clarke is what people call my father.’
‘Tom, then. I know where my husband is. That is, I know he was arrested. I got them to admit that much, at least. I don’t know why, though. I don’t know where they’re keeping him. I don’t even know who has him, not really. I mean, it’s not just the police, is it, in cases like this?’ She looks, all of a sudden, as if she is about to cry. Tom frisks his pockets for something suitable to offer her but the only thing he can find is a packet of gum. When he looks up, though, her eyes are dry. She is upset, clearly, but more than anything else she seems angry. And she is waiting, Tom realises, for him to respond.
