The facility, p.4
The Facility, page 4
‘Walk!’
Arthur looks for the source of the voice.
‘I said, walk!’
Before he can locate it, the voice finds him.
‘Get in line! Follow the man in front!’
There is a face in his, a hand between his shoulders. It shoves him and he stumbles and he falls before he can catch himself. His hands, still bound, land on gravel; his knees too. There is pain but he barely has time to register it before he is being hauled to his feet and shoved forwards once again but this time when he stumbles he keeps his balance. He looks ahead and sees that a gap has opened up between him and the others. He trots to catch up but risks a glance behind. There are two, three, four men in brown uniforms, one of whom stands with his hands on his hips watching Arthur. Beyond the guards there is the coach – an unremarkable coach, though the windows are masked on the outside too, with an advert for the company that purportedly owns it – but no sign yet of the girl. Arthur slows and angles himself to get a view through the open door. The guard nearest to him, the one with his hands on his hips, edges forwards. Arthur scuttles on.
Inside the building they are made to wait. The entrance hall is cavernous and cold and they stand growing colder in clothes damp from the rain outside. Still no one speaks. Two women dressed in the same brown uniforms as the men in the courtyard shepherd them into a ragged line, while another guard behind a desk checks each prisoner against a list and assigns a number and a bundle for them to carry onwards. Arthur counts. There are twenty, twenty-five prisoners at least, maybe two-thirds of them men, but he cannot be certain because even such simple arithmetic feels as testing as long division. He feels nauseous and unsteady and like there is an axe lodged between his eyes. He is the last in the line and he feels exposed. He shuffles closer to the man in front and stands so close that he treads on his heel. The man seems not to notice.
Arthur’s number is four eight nine one. He forgets it as soon as he turns from the desk. Carrying his bundle he follows the man in front through a doorway. They climb a flight of steps and the effort of doing so is enormous. Halfway up he wants to pause, plant his heavy legs for a moment, but he sees a guard at his back so keeps walking. They emerge into a corridor that smells of paint and now there are voices, hushed but incessant, and faces at each of the doors they pass, peering through thick glass panels the size of a splayed palm. The eyes of those watching flick along the parade of prisoners but Arthur is last so when they land on him they stick. Arthur tries to act as though he has not seen them, does not care to see them, but he cannot help looking at every door he passes. At some panels there are two faces, or two halves of different faces, but none of them is smiling. Several seem pale, sallow, and all wear the expression Arthur’s son does when he is sat in front of the television. They are all alike in that respect and unremarkable because of it and only one causes Arthur to glance and glance again. Someone he knows: he is walking past someone he knows. But he is mistaken, he thinks, and anyway the face is gone and he dares not turn round. Although when the guard stops him and directs him into an empty room, he looks again. He cannot see, though. He cannot even be sure which of the doors he should be looking towards. And then he is inside and the door to his cell is closing and he turns towards the guard and the door is shut. He steps to the glass panel and presses against it. The only thing he can see, though, is the wall opposite.
And that face. The face he recognised. Because he did recognise it, he is sure. He can picture it but the picture lacks context. It is as though the face belonged to his GP or a waiter from his favourite restaurant or somebody who only really exists within the four walls in which Arthur has boxed them. Still, he knows it. He knows he knows it. And if counting was difficult and long division would be unbearable, this is harder. Because he knows the answer. He already knows the answer. Which means he cannot work it out; he cannot start from the beginning and reckon forwards. He has to delve back, when his memory is a fog and his sense of where to look is anyway—
There is no context. That is the clue. There is no context because they have never met. The face is just that to him. It is the face they showed him; the face in the photograph. It is the face of the man who put him here.
Already she has the phone in her hand. ‘Tom? Are we done?’
‘What? Yes.’ Tom stands. He picks up his notepad. He puts the plastic lid back on his cup of coffee and scrunches the empty sugar packet that lies next to it. He looks at Katherine, who is frowning at surnames beginning with D. He sits back down.
Katherine lifts her head.
‘There was something else,’ Tom says. ‘It’s nothing, probably, but I just thought . . . I mean, while we’re talking . . .’
‘I’ve got a dozen calls to return, Tom. What is it?’ Katherine does not replace the receiver but reaches and cuts off the dial tone with a finger.
Tom slides his coffee cup further on to Katherine’s desk. ‘Someone came to see me this morning. A woman. She was looking for her husband and she wanted help.’
‘We’re the media, Tom. We’re not the local constabulary.’
‘No. Quite. That’s why she came here.’
‘Tom.’ His boss says his name the way his mother used to.
‘It’s the police who have him. He was arrested and they won’t let her see him.’
‘What did he do?’
‘Nothing. She says he did nothing.’
Katherine gives him a look. Her arm is still outstretched; the receiver is still in her hand.
‘The man’s a dentist. And they arrested him under Unified Security.’
Katherine sighs. She sets the receiver in its cradle. ‘They can do that. They can hold you under Unified Security for failing to pay a parking ticket.’
‘I know. That’s my point.’
‘I did wonder whether you had one.’
Tom shuffles forwards in his chair. ‘There’s a film. A neighbour was videoing some kids and she got the arrest on tape.’
‘And? What happens in the film?’
Tom frowns. ‘What do you mean? He gets arrested. They arrest him.’
‘They arrest him. That’s it.’
‘They don’t kick the shit out of him, if that’s what you mean. At least, I don’t think they do. I haven’t actually seen it.’
Katherine holds up a hand. She shuts her eyes, opens them again. ‘Can this wait, Tom? Is it essential that we talk about this now?’
‘No. Of course not.’ Once more Tom stands. ‘I don’t see why it can’t wait.’
Katherine smiles with her lips pressed tight. She reaches for the phone.
‘Except,’ says Tom, turning back on his way towards the door, ‘we have some time before the evening news cycle, right? If I were to knock something together, we could squeeze a headline and a standfirst on the home page?’
Katherine lets her hand drop. She smiles again, at the desk and then up at Tom.
‘And a picture. A still from the film, maybe, which could link to the mpeg.’
‘On the home page,’ says his boss. ‘A headline and a stand-first and a still from the film.’
‘Not as a main story, obviously. If we’re pushed for space, we could run it below the fold.’
For a moment Katherine does not react. She exhales, then turns to her screen and brings up the Libertarian home page. ‘Okay,’ she says and she nods. ‘Okay, Tom. You win.’
‘Really?’ Tom takes a step towards her desk.
‘Sure. Why not? What we’ll do is, we’ll drop the lead on the Middle East. I mean, it’s the same old shit, right? Israel, Palestine; Palestine, Israel. Everyone knows it’s a waste of breath.’
Tom looks to his feet.
‘And this banner ad. It’s sitting right where you’d have me put the still from your Zapruder sequence. That’s fine though,’ Katherine says, waving down Tom as he is about to speak. ‘We’ll just kill it. It’s only a grand or two and it’s not like we’re running a business. I’ll tell Apple we’ll put it back up next week. It’s timed for a launch but they won’t mind.’
‘Katherine—’
‘The archive. We’ll stick it on the stories in the archive.’
‘All I was saying was—’
‘It’s fine, Tom, really – it’ll work just as well.’
Katherine falls silent but Tom does not speak. He has a feeling she is waiting for him to say something in order that she might interrupt.
‘I only thought—’ Tom says, after a moment.
‘Is she pretty?’ says Katherine, interrupting.
‘What? Who? No. What?’
‘This woman who came to see you. Is she pretty?’
‘She’s married! And anyway that’s not the reason—’
‘You have a history, Tom.’
‘I’m suggesting it because it’s a story!’
Katherine looks to the ceiling, then back at him. ‘It’s not a story, Tom. There is no story.’
‘Of course there’s a story! A man disappears. The police admit arresting him only after being caught on film. They hold him without charge, without informing his relatives, without – and this goes without saying – giving him access to a solicitor. How is that not a story?’
‘It’s old news. It’s the way of things now.’
‘Right. And this is the Libertarian. I mean, this is the Libertarian, right?’ Tom makes a show of looking around the room. ‘I didn’t get off in Wapping by mistake?’
‘We’ve made our position clear, Tom. You, very eloquently, have made our position clear.’
‘So that’s it? We write a column or two, vent some steam, then shrug our shoulders and move on? That’s not us, Katherine. That sort of thing: it’s the reason you left the Sunday Times. It’s the reason you set up this website in the first place.’
‘We pick our battles,’ says Katherine. ‘No,’ she adds. ‘I do. I pick our battles. And we’re not fighting this one. Not on the say-so of a pretty girl who knows how to spot a sucker and a home-made video showing the police acting to the letter of the law.’
‘An innocent man is in prison, Katherine. And even if he’s not innocent—’
‘There!’ Katherine stands. ‘There it is! That’s exactly what I’m saying. You don’t know if he’s innocent. You don’t even know what he’s supposed to have done.’
‘That’s because the police haven’t told—’
‘You haven’t seen the film, Tom! You’re asking me to run a film you haven’t even seen! Just think about that for a moment.’
Tom has his hands on his hips. Katherine has her weight on her palms and her eyebrows raised. She waits.
‘I’ll get a copy,’ says Tom.
Katherine says nothing.
‘And I’ll do some digging. I’ll talk to Julia again. The woman who came to see me.’
‘I don’t know, Tom,’ says Katherine finally. A corner of her mouth curls upwards. ‘That sounds an awful lot like actual research.’
Tom swallows. ‘Yeah well. I suppose it had to happen eventually.’
A silence follows. Tom is not sure whether to fill it.
‘Listen, Tom,’ says Katherine. She sits. ‘I meant what I said. About picking our battles. Our readers trust us but only so far. If we start crying wolf every time we catch the scent, soon enough there’ll be no one to listen.’
Tom clears his throat.
‘Don’t waste your time on this, Tom. Please.’
Tom reaches to collect his coffee cup from Katherine’s desk. ‘I understand,’ he says. ‘I do.’
‘Good,’ says Katherine. ‘Now,’ she says and she picks up the phone. ‘Are we done?’
He does not know why they come here. The drinks are overpriced and watered down. There is never anywhere to sit except at the one table everyone else ignores, so close to the toilets it might as well be housed in a cubicle. The staff are rude and slow and incompetent, and the food – if they get drunk enough to order any – tastes of month-old frying oil. But it is close by. That is the reason they come here. An inability to venture more than twenty-five yards from the lobby is the reason they, and the architects from the floor below, and the accountants in the offices above, waste their evenings drinking piss at the Florist.
‘Where are the flowers?’ says Josh from the seat opposite. He is talking to Tom but Tom ignores him. He has his hands round his pint of Foster’s and his eyes on the dwindling head.
‘What flowers?’ says Alisha.
‘It should have flowers,’ says Josh, turning. ‘Shouldn’t it? On the tables. On the bar at least. A freesia here and there. A daffodil.’
There is a tap against Tom’s knee. He does not need to look to know that Gilbert, seated to his left, is trying to pass him something under the table. He shakes his head.
‘It’s called the Florist,’ says Alisha. ‘It’s not called the Flowers.’
‘Okay,’ says Josh. ‘So where’s the florist? If you see him, remind him what it is he does for a living.’
Alisha just sips her vodka-tonic.
‘It could be a woman,’ says Amy. ‘The florist. You said he but it could be a she.’
Josh is about to reply but Gilbert interrupts with a laugh. He always begins his jokes with a laugh. ‘It would explain the lack of flowers,’ he says and he grins. ‘Right? It would explain why she forgot the flowers.’
Only Amy bothers to respond. ‘What?’
Gilbert is still grinning. ‘It would explain—’
‘No, I heard what you said, Gilbert. It was very funny. Sophisticated too. Bigoted and misogynistic but really quite sophisticated. Well done.’
Gilbert sniffs. He wipes at his nose. He glances around the table but the others avoid his eye.
There are five of them. The usual five. They are all in their mid to late twenties but earn their rent and beer money in different departments. Gilbert and Alisha are in sales; Josh does something involving technology that only he and Katherine seem to understand. Tom and Amy are the only journalists in the group, which means, as far as they are concerned, that they work the hardest for the least reward. Generally they are still in the office when the other three have already logged off – except on Wednesdays, when only breaking news of a national disaster will keep Tom and Amy from joining their friends after hours at the Florist. Although even amid a national disaster, they have been known to head out with their laptops.
Free wi-fi: that is the other reason they come here.
Gilbert is tapping him again, more obviously this time, and frowning at Tom when once more he shakes his head. ‘What’s up with you?’ Gilbert says, forgetting himself and his fear, too, that a bouncer – or Amy – will catch them with a wrap of coke. It is early, though; Gilbert is two or three lines from noticeably gurning and probably Amy assumes he is only asking from curiosity at Tom’s sullenness. She picks up the theme.
‘He’s sulking,’ she says. ‘Aren’t you, Tom?’
‘Shut up, Amy.’
‘He is,’ she says. ‘He’s sulking because Katherine wouldn’t run his story.’
‘What story?’ says Josh.
‘Amy,’ Tom warns but the conversation is already beyond his control.
‘He won’t say.’ Amy grins at Tom. ‘But it’s something to do with a size-eight blonde he can’t stop thinking about.’
‘Seriously, Amy.’
‘I didn’t know you liked blondes.’ This from Gilbert. He is leering.
‘What? I don’t. I’m going to the bar,’ Tom says but when he looks at the table he realises no one is ready yet for another drink. He has barely started his own.
‘He’s blushing,’ says Alisha. ‘That’s so sweet.’
‘What does she look like?’ says Gilbert, all teeth. Josh leans into the table.
Tom shakes his head. He slides his pint away and drops his hands into his lap. He turns away.
‘He’s sulking!’ says Amy. ‘He’s genuinely sulking!’ She is goading him. He knows she is goading him.
‘Come on, Tom,’ says Gilbert. ‘What does she look like?’
‘Amy,’ says Josh. ‘What does she look like?’
‘Blonde,’ says Amy. ‘Skinny. Too skinny, really,’ she adds, turning to Alisha. ‘And I’m fairly sure her hair was bleached. Pretty though,’ she says, shrugging and looking again at Josh. ‘Oh, and she’s exotic. She’s from Massachusetts.’ She smirks. ‘Tom took her for a private interview.’
‘Oh yeah?’ says Josh.
‘She’s married,’ Tom says. He cannot stop himself. ‘She’s fucking married.’
‘So?’ says Gilbert and Alisha thumps him.
‘Thwarted love,’ says Josh, nodding. ‘That would explain it.’
‘Explain what? I’m not sulking!’
‘You are,’ says Amy. ‘You’re sulking right now.’
‘I’m not. I’m not sulking. I’m thinking. I’m allowed to sit and think, aren’t I?’
Amy shakes her head.
‘’Fraid not,’ says Josh. ‘Not under this government.’
‘Not since Unified Security,’ says Amy and Josh nods.
‘I’ll just sit then,’ says Tom. ‘How about you let me just sit?’
Amy winces. She sucks air between her teeth. ‘What do you think, Josh?’
‘It all depends where,’ he says. ‘And how. You wouldn’t want your sitting to be construed as some form of non-sanctioned protest.’
Alisha laughs. Tom would too, ordinarily, but not today. Instead he falls silent. He returns his attention to the glass in front of him and waits for Amy to say something more.
She does not. In deference to his mood, perhaps, she changes the subject. The conversation turns to plans for the weekend but Tom finds this no less irritating. They leave him alone, though, and that is something, until Gilbert starts once again to tap at his leg.
