Table of Contents

- Dedication

- 1. The dawn raid

- 2. The interrogation

- 3. The mission

- 4. AWOL

- 5. A change of abode

- 6. The big city

- 7. Not a wise move

- 8. Off the beaten track

- 9. The raid

- 10. Banged to rights

- 11. The meaning of love

- 12. The meet

- 13. The chippie

- 14. Bringing up Jonathan

- 15. A familiar face

- 16. Widdensborough

- 17. The Last Chance

- 18. The last stand

- 19. In the nick of time

The Dissidents: A novella

Sixth edition

By H.M. Forester

Copyright © 2012 by H.M. Forester

The right of H.M. Forester as the owner of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. Copyright throughout the world.

All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical or photographic, by recording or any information storage or retrieval system or method now known or to be invented or adapted, without prior permission obtained in writing from the publishers, except by a reviewer quoting brief passages in a review written for inclusion in a journal, magazine, newspaper or broadcast.

First edition for Kindle: 16 April 2012

Sixth edition: 13 June 2012

Sher Point Publications, UK

http://mystical-faction.blogspot.co.uk/

Front cover image: A resized version of a photograph depicting the honeycomb of Apis mellifera capensis, the Cape honey bee, taken by the Wikimedia Commons' user “Discott” on 1 February 2012. Source: Wikimedia Commons.

Dedication

Dedicated to the peaceful dissidents of misguided, myopic, idiotic, corrupt or despotic regimes everywhere. You know who your are.

1. The dawn raid

Enforcement Officer Kingsley checked the remaining charge on his disrupter and eased off the safety catch. After wiping the beads of perspiration from his furrowed brow, he lowered the protective visor of his helmet and snapped it into place. Not knowing what opposition they might face on the other side of the door, this was a tense moment.

Sometimes the dissidents would meekly surrender like gentle lambs, and other times they'd try to fight their way out like cornered rats, with tooth and claw and all guns blazing.

Kingsley was tough, with a muscular physique patiently and diligently honed over the years through daily workouts in the gym, and he had a rugged jaw line. A few years back, a dissident had landed him an almighty punch on the jaw and Kingsley had just stood there, shrugged off the blow and laughed in his assailant's face. The guy had run off screaming, having just broken three knuckles in his hand. In part, that's how Kingsley had earned his nickname in the Force: “The Rock”. The others joked about how his jaw was so strong, it might have been chiselled out of a slab of granite. But that was only part of the story. What had really toughened up Kingsley – not physically but mentally and emotionally – were the years and years that he'd spent dealing with the dissidents and crims and other pond life, out on the back streets and the stinking, garbage-strewn alleyways and in the pitiful, neglected slums.

In spite of this, however, Kingsley knew full well that out on the streets his reputation was of little use beyond that of a mild deterrent; that there was no room for sitting on your laurels – if you valued your life, that was – and that an Enforcer was only as good as he was on the day, in the here and now. Kingsley never once forgot that he was as mortal as any other, and that all it would take to dispatch him from this world was a single, unlucky or well aimed blade or bullet.

That's how his own father had died, in the line of duty, on the very eve of his honourable retirement, years ago in a botched raid on a militant cell; and that was the primary reason that Kingsley had abandoned college and joined the ranks himself. He'd arrested countless dissidents in his career, yet still he felt no closer to settling that old score and finally finding closure. Perhaps he never would find closure this way, for they weren't fighting a conventional enemy, and the force never secured a defining victory. All they were ever doing was nibbling at the edges of this irrepressible cancerous growth.

Someone was up already in the next house and they had the radio on, blaring out strident hymns like When the Hive is Called Upon and Glory to Our Greater Good, interspersed with brief and appropriate sermons. It must have been the Religious Channel, which was on some kind of endless loop, with the same hymns coming round again and again as regular as clockwork. On the hour, every hour, they always played that rousing all time favourite, Hive of Plenty. But right now the radio was driving Kingsley to distraction and he was sorely tempted to go next door, set his disrupter on maximum and obliterate the blessèd contraption.

The department had received an anonymous tip-off about an Individualist dissident cell living and operating on Kingsley's patch and he, his partner Jenkins and four other officers were about to carry out a dawn raid. Jenkins had stuck shaped charges on the hinge side of the door, which was more often than not the weak spot, and they'd taken cover close up to the wall, out of the way of the blast.

Drawing in a deep breath, he gave the signal; and as Jenkins pressed the little red button, the charges blew and the door was violently wrenched from the wall by the force of the sharp blast and flung inside, showering the hallway with splintered fragments of wood.

A dark, acrid cloud of spent explosive billowed out into the street; but even before the dust had settled, three of them were inside whilst the others waited round the back in case any of the suspects beat a hasty exit through the rear of the premises.

Well, that finally silenced the damn radio next door and would have the neighbours' net curtains twitching.

“Armed Enforcers!” Kingsley bellowed again and again as they ran from room to room; kicking in the doors and waving their pistols menacingly, ready for any sign of resistance.

Finally they entered the bedroom, taking in the scene in an instant. There was a man standing there, stark naked and ready for fight or flight.

“Armed Enforcers! On the ground now! On the ground! On the ground. Hands behind your head.”

The fear etched across the man's features gave way to a deep groan of despair and he obediently dropped to his knees. Kingsley grabbed hold of him round the back of the neck and sent him sprawling, belly down on the bedroom carpet.

“Hands behind your head! Right, now clasp your hands. Clasp your hands together.”

There was another in the room, too. A red haired woman. She was still in bed, clutching tight hold of the bedding.

“You!” he yelled, waving his disrupter threateningly. The woman might be armed and this was neither the time nor the place for modesty or social niceties. “Out of bed. On the ground.”

The woman was clearly too terrified to move, clutching the bedding still tighter to her heaving chest, so while Jenkins had her covered, Kingsley snatched hold of the bottom of the duvet, tore it from her frail grasp and cast it into a corner of the room.

“Out of bed!” he yelled again.

The woman lay there dithering, too scared to move or even scream out; so, stepping round the prostrate man, he grabbed hold of her by the arm and manhandled her across the room. Again, naked as she was, the social niceties would have to wait.

“Flat on the ground!” he barked, pushing her down onto her knees. “Hands behind your head!”

The third officer, Malone came forward now. He knelt on the male suspect's legs, wrenched the man's arms behind his back and fastened his hands together with a stout plastic cable tie. Then Malone turned to the woman and tied her up like a trussed turkey, too.

Kingsley turned to Jenkins and Malone. “Okay, go through to the back and let the others in.”

Finally, Kingsley allowed himself a deep sigh of relief. It came as a relief to him that there hadn't been a fire fight and that there had been no friendly casualties; and yet he also felt disappointed that these were clearly soft targets, not militant or high ranking dissidents as the informant had wrongly led them to believe. Kingsley also knew full well that it would take a good deal more than this if he were to ever escape the beat and the lesser pond life and finally be promoted to a coveted position in Investigations.

They didn't find any other occupants in the small flat and, satisfied that the premises were now secure, Jenkins led the suspects out through the front door and into the van and informed the Investigators that it was now safe for them to enter. It was their job to search for evidence; and if they had to tear the flat apart, or dismantle it brick by brick to find evidence, then that is precisely what they would do.

When it came to dealing with feral dissidents, there was only one unwritten law that superseded all others: “An' it secure a conviction, do what thou wilt.” Unlike the common criminal, dissidents were not allowed access to any slick talking lawyers or social do-gooders, nor were they granted a fair trial by their Hive-abiding peers through the public court system. Instead, they were brought before the Dissidents' Disciplinary Tribunal (DDT), a specially self-selected panel of experts, and their cases were heard and dealt with in closed session. Little is known about the machinations of the Tribunal, except that they were said to be bound by no regulations or guidelines, and that there was no set sentencing tariff upon conviction, each case being decided solely on its own merit and entirely at the Tribunal's discretion. Though these people worked in strict accordance with Our Greater Good, they were a law unto themselves and answerable to no-one other than the highest and most remote echelons of Hive Officialdom and, of course, ultimately the Queen Herself – may the Hive bless and keep Her now, as always, and for ever more.

Kingsley and Jenkins stayed behind as the others drove off with the suspects to take them back to the station for interrogation. He wandered idly through the flat as the team of investigators went to work.

The Investigators were there in the flat for over an hour, and in all that time they didn't come across one single anomaly, let alone any contraband material, which was deeply frustrating. All the furniture, the decoration and other household items, right down to the plastic cups and saucers, were of regulation issue; and the paintings, photographs and slogan bearing posters on the walls were all officially approved. There wasn't a single clue in any of the rooms that the couple were anything but law-abiding people of Hive Mind. The only thing they were pretty sure about was that, judging by the covers, the pair had been sharing the same twin bed; but the Tribunal would not be best chuffed if that was the only, flimsy evidence presented to them. The Tribunal could be as disparaging of the Force as they were with the dissidents, and Kingsley's own captain could be even more caustic when she found herself in the line of fire, was displeased and keen to shift the blame. Kingsley would have gladly faced the dissidents any day than that woman's truly withering glare. All she had to do was look you directly in the eye, and in spite of any rational defence you might have erected, conscience would be triggered and wretched, primeval feelings of, guilt, shame and an accompanying rush of adrenaline would be sure to erupt.

Rather belatedly, the Investigators decided to call in a dog handler, and when he eventually arrived he let the dog loose in the flat to sniff around wherever its sensitive, trained nose led it. The dog had been having a good sniff around a cupboard under the stairs, and having found something of potential interest, the dog let out a bark and sat down to await further instructions from its handler.

The man released a catch on the understairs cupboard, encouraging the dog to investigate, and the animal trotted inside, excitedly sniffing and scratching at the floorboards. Rewarding the dog and shooing it out of the way, the handler got down on his hands and knees and examined the area more closely, and then he came across a concealed catch. When he released the catch, the whole section of floorboards swung up on counterweights to rest against the staircase above and, shining a flashlight inside, the man discovered another set of steep, narrow wooden steps leading down.

“Branigan?” he called out to one of the Investigators. “We think we've found what you're looking for.”

The Investigator came forward and peered inside the dark hole. He located a light switch on the wall and reached down to turn it on, then descended into what appeared to be a small cellar. His disrupter at the ready, as correct procedure advised, Kingsley followed the man. There was always the chance that more dissidents might be hiding down there, though it seemed unlikely.

The first thing Kingsley noticed, sniffing the air, was that it was laden with some kind of aromatic scent, and beneath that there was a faintly damp and musty smell. “Joss sticks,” the Investigator explained. “They light the sticks and when they burn they give off an aromatic fragrance. It's a sickly stench, if you ask us, but the dissidents seem to favour it. All part of their arcane rituals and dating back to ancient times, so we're told.”

Reaching the bottom of the stairs and clicking on an overhead light, the Investigator waved his arms around expansively and turned to Kingsley, a smug grin etched across his fat face. “Well, here we have it. Proof if ever it were needed.”

Kingsley looked around. In the centre of the room was a small dining table with ornate legs, made of some highly polished hardwood. On the top of the table there was a tablecloth, edged in lace and fine embroidery. Two places had been set at the table, with what looked like decorated ceramic plates and two crystal cut wine glasses, and a silver candle holder was placed between the two, with a candle in two of the stems and a ruby red rose and a couple of green leaves in the third.

On one of the walls, there was some kind of old-fashioned wood burning cooking range, with a bright metal flue which reached up into the ceiling. And around the walls were several other pieces of antique furniture and numerous items of contraband, most noticeably a shelving unit filled from top to bottom with books by proscribed authors; a record player and a collection of prohibited music. There were also a number of old paintings on the wall of an erotic or lascivious nature. These people appeared to have no sense of common decency and knew no shame.

Finding prohibited literature or music was easy enough: all one had to do was count the times that the words “I” or “me” were used, or more generally if the content featured or promoted acts of individualism or personal gratification; and that automatically ruled in virtually all publications more than one hundred years old, before the Hive rose to power, and any by independent or underground publishers not granted an official licence by the Board of Media Censors.

However, what was beyond Kingsley was quite why so many of the dissidents should have such an aversion to plastic. They invariably used ceramic, wood, stone or metal substitutes and only used plastic sparingly if there was both a necessity and no alternative, covering up the plastic whenever they could. They'd take an adequate modern television, for example, and build a clumsy wooden case around it. Or cover a perfectly workable plastic surface with elaborately and brightly decorated, hand-crafted fabric or even with sheets of paper, if nothing else were available.

“Yes,” Investigator Branigan nodded, strutting around the room with his head held high. “These are three of the cardinal signs of dissidence, Enforcer Kingsley. We note the absence of official pictures and slogans. This indicates an attempt to reduce or negate the effects of social conditioning. A predilection for antiques indicates a nostalgia for the bad old days before the Hive came to power. And above all, such a predilection indicates an absence of Hive Mind and a presence of Individualism, brought about by that bane of humanity, Ego. We declare this case not only closed, but locked, barred and bolted.

“There's not the shadow of a doubt in our mind that these are dissidents we're dealing with here, members of the Cult of the Individual; and rest assured that after interrogation, they will receive the appropriate medication together with a strict regime of cognitive reconditioning, if necessary in a penal institution.”

“And if that doesn't work?” Kingsley enquired.

The rotund Investigator shrugged his shoulders. “Then it may require a minor though invasive surgical procedure. All it takes is a bit of ferreting about and a snip or two here and there in the brain, or so we are reliably informed. Now, if it's a genetic trait rather than something organic, then they'll be forcibly sterilized to prevent the spread of the infectious disease of Egotism to future generations.”

Kingsley pressed the man further on the matter. “And if all else fails?”

The Investigator raised his bushy eyebrows and drew the edge of his hand under his double chin, across his throat, as you might a sharp blade. “We believe that's what is known in common parlance as a 'no brainer', Enforcer Kingsley.”

Much as Kingsley despised the ideology and errant behaviour of the dissidents, he could not help but notice that there was not the slightest whiff of pity or regret in the man's voice. He made it all sound so clinical.

“In that unlikely event, for Our Greater Good – the needs of the many outweighing the needs of the few – the dissidents will simply have to be dispatched. That is, of course, the ultimate sanction – and it also serves as a powerful deterrent to others of a similar heretical ilk.”

Well, Kingsley mused, either that or it drove them still further underground, making his task all the more fraught with difficulty.

~~~O~~~

Kingsley and Jenkins were returning from the scene and heading back to the station. They'd made a slight detour to stop off at a popular roadside stand which sold thick, treacly coffee that was so laden with caffeine that it could have raised the dead, and the best tasting hotdogs you could get in the lower east side of the city.

As happens all too often, he and Jenkins were just taking their first bites of hotdog when Kingsley heard an alarm go off nearby and he caught sight of a hefty white male making a rapid exit from nearby premises. The man hastily dived into a nearby car, a white convertible, and the car sped away in a screech of tyres. Cursing their luck, Kingsley and Jenkins tossed their plastic coffee cups out through the windows, stashed their half-eaten hotdogs on top of the dashboard, flipped the switch to sound their siren and flashing lights and took off in pursuit.

With Jenkins driving, Kingsley got straight on the radio. “Alpha One Nine to Control. 406 near the corner of 47 North and 35 East. In pursuit of a heavily built white male suspect driving at speed in a white convertible.”

He hung onto the door frame as Jenkins passed a red light and slewed the car round to the right. The car was not too far ahead and the camera finally locked on. He checked the details on the monitor. “Suspect driving at speed, southbound on 48. Registration number alpha papa echo four one nine,” he told the operator. “Reported stolen earlier today.”

With lock now established, he hit the red button to immobilize the convertible, but the car drove on at high speed.

The speaker crackled and Control acknowledged their call. “Roger, Alpha One Nine. Nearby units have been advised.”

Kingsley tapped a few menu options and rewound the video recording. As the suspect emerged from the premises, he froze the frame, drew a rectangle around the man's head and shoulders, expanded the image to full screen and clicked another menu option to run the image through the computer. Within seconds they had a match.

“Alpha One Nine to Control. Suspect is papa lima xray one four six seven Harrison.”

He paused while the details were populated on the monitor screen. “Known felon. Two counts of assault and one aggravated burglary.”

“Roger, Alpha One Nine. We have the details now. Be advised that the suspect is flagged as a two niner. Repeat, the suspect is a two niner, so approach with caution.”

Most two niners were martial artists and it basically meant that the suspect's own arms, legs and maybe his head were to be considered lethal weapons; and this also gave him and Jenkins the legal authority to use appropriate lethal force if they were so threatened, even if the suspect was not armed.

“Roger that, Control.”

The car took the top of a rise and Kingsley was lifted from his seat and banged his head on the thinly padded roof. “Hey, steady on partner. We're planning to make it through to a well-earned retirement.”

Down they came with a sickening thump that floored the suspension and left a shower of sparks in their wake. Worst of all, their precious hotdogs hit the deck.

Jenkins stamped on the brakes and Kingsley was forced forward, his seat belt stretching painfully to restrain him. The suspect had not been so lucky. There was a tee junction not many yards over the rise and, unable to control his car, he had ploughed into a brick wall at the far side of the junction, missing a passing bus by the narrowest of margins.

They were out of the car now and heading for the junction, pulling their disrupters and flipping off the safety catches as they ran. Unbelievably, though the bonnet of the car had been concertinaed in the impact, the suspect had physically torn the door off its hinges and was attempting to make a run for it.

“Armed Enforcers!” Jenkins bellowed, and without further warning he fired off a charge from his disrupter, hitting the wall not far ahead of the suspect in a bright blue flash. Still Harrison ran on. He must have weighed in at over two hundred and twenty pounds, but he was no slouch.

Jenkins was close behind him now and he fired off a charge, hitting Harrison on the shoulder blade, but the man merely shrugged it off. Abruptly and unexpectedly, he turned and ran at Jenkins. Kingsley let off a shot, but it missed and struck the wall in a shower of electric blue sparks. Jenkins aimed again and hit Harrison square in the chest, but the man must have been wearing a protective vest, because he didn't even flinch. Coming up on Jenkins, he raised his fist high in the air and brought it crashing down on Jenkins' head and, even though he was wearing a helmet, his legs collapsed beneath him and he slumped to the ground, utterly pole axed.

Harrison was coming at Kingsley now and Kingsley dropped to his knee and carefully took aim. One charge hit Harrison in the left knee and it buckled beneath him, but he regained his balance and still he came on, dragging his left leg behind him. Again Kingsley fired, hitting the man right in the goolies, which must have brought tears to his eyes. The man cried out in a mixture of pain and rage, but still he refused to be subdued.

Kingsley fired again, hitting the man's right knee and finally he fell headfirst to the ground. Just to be certain, Kingsley let off two more shots, straight in the head.

Once he was sure that Harrison was out for the count, he brought out a bunch of cable ties. Since Harrison was such a brute of a man, he doubled up the cable ties and bound him hand and foot. Another unit had arrived on the scene by now, so Kingsley left them to take care of Harrison while he hurried over to see if Jenkins was alright. Though not as limp wristed as some Kingsley could mention, the man wasn't the most robust Enforcer on the beat. Kingsley had already lost his father and one of his former partners, and he was scared stiff of losing a third. They were warned often enough at boot camp to steel themselves and not to become attached to one-another; but they were all human, they did become attached, and it did hurt when one of their number fell in the line of duty.

Fortunately, Jenkins had regained consciousness by now, though he looked distinctly blurry eyed, so Kingsley got on his radio to call for a paramedic. Being concussed, they'd probably take Jenkins to hospital and keep him in for twenty four hours under observation. Still, it could have been worse. Judging by what he'd seen of Harrison, that hulk of a man, it could have been far worse, if not tragic.

2. The interrogation

When they arrived back at the station, Investigator Branigan turned to Kingsley. “We are eager to get to work on the suspects, Enforcer Kingsley. Have them brought from the cells and taken through to interrogation. We'll interview them separately, starting with the woman. As the arresting officer, you might like to sit in on the sessions. We gather from your sergeant that you come highly commended, so it will be good for you to get a taste of some more challenging work.”

Well, maybe things were finally looking up after all, Kingsley mused.

Almost as soon as Branigan had started the video recorder and introduced the attending officers and the suspect, there was a loud, staccato rat-a-tat-tat at the door. It was the Chief Investigator. Explaining the interruption for the benefit of the video tape, Branigan left his seat and went outside the room to exchange hushed words with his superior, then returned moments later.

Branigan strode over to the desk, clicked a button to stop the tape and turned to address the woman. She sat there in the white nylon body suit they'd given her to wear, with her arms resolutely and defensively folded, and had yet to utter a single word.

“Thank you, Miss Blake. You are free to go.”

The woman frowned and rose to her feet. “What do you mean, 'free to go'?” she wanted to know.

For the most fleeting moment, an angry expression crossed the woman's face, and Kingsley thought she was about to explode in a fit of rage, but instead she quietly sank back down into her seat, smiled and flicked a strand of her long red hair out of her eyes. “That's quite all right, Mister Investigator. This is surely all for Our Greater Good.”

Branigan nodded in appreciation. “Thank you for your understanding, Miss Blake, and please accept our deepest apologies. It would seem that our intelligence was woefully flawed. Having found no evidence of dissidence, of course no charges will be brought against you or your companion. You are now free to go. We will arrange for an officer to return you and Mister Ventress to your apartment ….”

Blake drew a deep breath. “And what about the damage?” she asked matter-of-factly, though Kingsley could detect a slight edge beneath her apparent calm. This suppressed anger and indignation was surely in itself a sign of the Egotist dissident mentality, or at least some failure in the conditioning process – though of course none of them were perfect in that regard. However, he did not pursue the issue.

“Please accept our apologies, madam. Rest assured that we will immediately arrange for a professional joiner to fit a new door and that you will be financially compensated.”

Again the woman involuntarily bit her lip and forced a smile. “Thank you. All hail the Hive Mind,” she nodded, and again rose to her feet and turned to leave, clearly anxious to be away.

“All hail the Hive Mind,” Branigan echoed, nodding his own head in salute.

As another officer escorted the woman and her male companion from the premises, Kingsley turned to Investigator Branigan. “What's this all about? We found incontrovertible evidence that they're dissidents; and even if we hadn't then the woman would have soon cracked and shown her true Egotistical nature under interrogation. You must have seen for yourself just now that she could barely contain herself. They should be banged to rights.”

“The Chief knows best and she has other plans,” the Investigator replied, tapping the side of his nose with a podgy finger. “Softly softly, catchee monkey, Enforcer Kingsley. These are most likely just small fry – certainly they are amateurs – and we'd gain little by prosecuting them in isolation. So, we do not let on that we found their secret hidey hole. What we do instead is keep the pair under surveillance and see if they lead us to more of their kind, or to bigger fish.”

Well, that made sense, of course, but Kingsley was a little miffed himself. It would have been far more sensible to have simply put the pair under surveillance in the first place and skipped the dawn raid. These people were going to be that much more careful in their dealings with others now, and any further investigation would be correspondingly more difficult.

3. The mission

Several weeks later, just as he was clocking on for a morning shift, Kingsley's pager sounded and he reached in his pocket and checked the glowing display.

Report to room 509, the display read in bright cyan characters. 509 was on the fifth floor of the headquarters, which was solely populated by Special Investigations and generally out of bounds to lesser mortals such as the Enforcers, and that sounded rather ominous; though the terse message offered no further clue as to what the meeting might be about.

Kingsley passed on his apologies to his partner on the way out of the sweaty locker room. “Sorry, something's come up, Jenkins. Been called to a meeting and will be away for a while.”

“No problem, Kingsley,” the man replied, looking up briefly as he fastened his black, steel-toed boots. “We've got quite a backlog of paperwork to wade through, anyway, that can't be put off for much longer, so we'll get on with that and hit the road later, whenever you get out of the meeting.”

When Kingsley swiped his card through the reader in the elevator and tentatively pressed the big blue button marked “5”, he expected to be loudly denied access, but it seemed they must have already updated the system. His request was quietly accepted and – with a stomach churning lurch – the elevator accelerated quickly up the side of the building. The lift came to a less than gentle stop at level five and with a pneumatic hiss, the doors slid open. He nervously stepped out, not quite knowing what fate might befall him that day, other than that it must be something important if it couldn't be handled through the official chain of command: directly by his own immediate superior, Sergeant Phelps, by Lieutenant Harding or – if needs be – by Captain Mason. Presumably, that meant that he wasn't facing a disciplinary issue, which came as some slight relief.

Kingsley found room 509 soon enough and he was just straightening his tie and on the point of knocking to announce his arrival when the door slid open.

“Enter,” a woman's voice commanded and, drawing a deep breath, Kingsley pulled himself up straight, marched smartly into the spacious office and, coming to a halt in front of a large desk at the far end, he briskly saluted. He couldn't help but notice that though the desk was clearly made of regulation materials – plain brown plastic – it was far larger than even Captain Mason's. So the lady must be some way up the hierarchical tree. But then, judging by what little he'd heard of their operations, Special Investigations did seem to be a law unto themselves.

“Enforcer Kingsley reporting as requested, Ma'am.”

The Special Investigator took off her reading glasses, left her paperwork and looked him up and down.

“At ease, Kingsley.” The woman gestured toward a second chair, just to one side of the desk. “Please take a seat.”

Kingsley extended a hand, but the Special Investigator did not reciprocate and left his hand dangling, nor did she introduce herself.

“We expect you're wondering why a lowly Enforcer such as yourself has been called here to Special Investigations?” she asked. It was more of a statement than a question.

Kingsley was a little in awe of the Special Investigator and there was a slightly nervous quiver in his voice as he spoke. “Yes, Ma'am.”

“Indeed, the same thing occurred to us when your name was put forward. Until we read your file and case notes, that is. You have an exemplary record, Kingsley, and you come highly recommended. As was your father before you, we are led to understand.”

“My name was put forward, Ma'am?” he queried.

“Yes. We have a special assignment in mind and we feel that you would be the ideal candidate. You've plodded the beat for long enough, Kingsley, and it is high time that you took a step or two up the ladder.”

“Thank you, Ma'am.” He was all ears.

“Let's face facts. We've spent far too many years pussyfooting around with the dissidents, Kingsley. Chasing up on informants' leads, bagging the odd minor dissident and sending them off for reconditioning. But in all those years, we've never been able to do much more than scratch the surface of the problem, whilst the contagion has continued to spread.”

“Agreed, Ma'am.”

“What we really need to do is to strike at the rotten heart of their operations and take out the ringleaders, Kingsley. And to do that, we need to get our people on the inside of their organization.”

The woman paused for a moment while she applied a spray to freshen her breath.

“You mean undercover, Ma'am?”

“Precisely,” the Special Investigator nodded briskly. “And that, our dear Enforcer Kingsley, is where you come in.”

Kingsley frowned. “But with respect, Ma'am, we know next to nothing about these people.”

The Special Investigator raised her bushy eyebrows. “Enforcer Kingsley, when people say 'with respect', all too often they go on to display an utter lack of it.”

“Sorry, Ma'am. What we meant is that we'd stand out like a sore thumb and it wouldn't take them more than a few minutes to discover that we were 'Fuss', to use one of their more polite names for us.”

Again the woman nodded. “Yes, that's agreed, Kingsley. We are fully aware of the fact that they are far better at recognizing Filth than we are at spotting a Diss, and things will have to change. What is required is expert coaching.”

The Special Investigator swivelled in her chair and pressed a switch on the intercom on her desk. “Show the girl in now, please,” she requested curtly.

Shortly afterwards, the door opened and another officer ushered someone into the office. The girl had long, straggly black hair, she was slightly built and Kingsley thought that she was perhaps in her early twenties. There were dark bags under the girl's eyes and she looked rather stressed and fearful. The term “hagridden” might perhaps have best described her. Kingsley assumed that Special Investigations must have given her a good working over, over a considerable period of time, and now the girl looked thoroughly broken. Every now and again she'd glance his way with a fearful and haunted look in her deeply set eyes.

“Pull up a chair,” the Special Investigator requested, gesturing to a spare seat against the wall by the door, and the girl silently and nervously complied. Then the Special Investigator turned back to Kingsley. “Over the course of the next three months, having seen sense at long last and agreed to cooperate with us, Potter here will coach you in the basics.”

“Three months?” Kingsley queried. “With respect, Ma'am, we've spent seven years dealing with the dissidents and we still barely know how they operate.”

Again the Special Investigator raised her eyebrows and Kingsley belatedly bit his tongue. “We are not accustomed to being questioned, Enforcer Kingsley, nor to having to repeat ourselves, nor to being interrupted mid-flow. So, if you'll kindly let us continue ...”

Kingsley hung his head. “Sorry, Ma'am.”

“Potter is to be released and you will be provided with a rent-free apartment, to live with her for a time. Now, every now and again the dissidents hold get-togethers, and once you've completed your schooling, Potter here will inform us when the next is to be held and where. You will both attend. When the party is in full swing, Special Investigations will arrange to raid the party. Whereupon, certain contraband materials will be found in your possession and you will be taken to the station, brought up before a judge and given a custodial sentence in a blaze of publicity about how an Enforcer with a hitherto unblemished record had fallen for the lure of Egotistic dissidence, turned native and gone absent without leave. That sort of thing.”

Kingsley had not been expecting that curve ball.

“You'll be given twelve months inside, with a course of reconditioning for a further twelve months after your release; and whilst inside, you will further coach yourself on the dissidents' wicked ways and worm your way into their midst. Upon eventual release, you will continue to frequent their company and from time to time you will report back to us with any intelligence that you have garnered.”

“Oh, right,” Kingsley gulped, doing his best to stay calm and not let his growing anxiety show. It was all a done deal, by the sound of it, and there wasn't really anything else he could say or do to the contrary.

“Finally, Kingsley, when you've been released from the undercover work, you will then be assigned to teach other new recruits to follow in your footsteps, so that we can further infiltrate their clandestine organizations. If it takes from now until Doomsday, Kingsley, we will not let up until we have finally crushed the cancerous resistance.”

Kingsley drew a deep breath. “Thank you, Ma'am. All hail the Hive Mind.”

The Special Investigator turned to the girl now. “And remember, Potter, if we sense the slightest whiff of betrayal in the air, you know what will happen. We will personally hunt down every single member of your family, including you, and you will all suffer. Rest assured that we will make what little remains of your pathetic lives a living hell. And you will never see your precious toddler, Jonathan again. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Ma'am,” the girl nodded vigorously, abject fear etched across her careworn features. “But I want to see my baby.”

The Special Investigator shook her head firmly from side to side. “I want never gets, Potter. You really should know that by now.”

“Please may we see our baby?” the girl offered instead.

“That's better. Later, Potter, when you've fulfilled your part of our bargain.”

The girl appeared genuinely relieved to hear that and her eyes momentarily lit up. “For Our Greater Good, we swear that we won't let you down. All hail the Hive Mind.”

“Good. That's a lot better, Potter. We knew that you'd see sense in the end. And, as we promised, if you do what is asked of you, we will do our utmost to make your life more comfortable.”

“Yes, thank you, Ma'am. I – I mean we – appreciate your help.”

“I? This is the very root of all evil, Potter,” the Special Investigator shuddered, reaching for her spray, as if to rid herself of some malodorous aftertaste. “How we detest that vile word. It makes us feel quite nauseous.”

The Special Investigator sighed and shook her head sadly. “You know, as we have humbly suggested on innumerable occasions, a simple surgical procedure during infancy – or better still, genetic engineering beforehand – really would save us no end of bother and grief. But do the Powers That Be take heed? We might as well be whispering in the wind for all the good it does.”

She turned away and clicked a switch on her desk top intercom. “Morrison? You can come in now.”

Again the door opened and another plainclothed officer entered. The man was quite tall and as skinny as a drain pipe, and he had a long neck and alert, penetrating eyes. He resembled a bird of prey, ready to swoop down on its victim at any moment.

The Special Investigator rose to her feet. “Right then, let battle commence. If you two would care to go with Morrison, you can get to know one-another a little better.”

Kingsley was a little puzzled. “What about my partner? Shouldn't we let him know?”

The Special Investigator smiled. “Don't worry about that, Kingsley. We'll handle all the necessary arrangements.”

“And my apartment?”

“As we said, we'll handle it,” she reiterated. “You need not concern yourself with any such details. Now off you go before we have second thoughts.”

“Yes, Ma'am. All hail the Hive Mind.”

“All hail,” the woman echoed a little half-heartedly as the officer ushered them out of the room, before replacing her reading glasses and wearily returning to her deep and growing pile of paperwork.

“It's all for the Greater Good, Ma'am,” Kingsley observed as he turned away, and yet deep down inside another part of him was tempted to ask “Is it? Is it really a worthy cause? You know, sometimes even I have my moments, and wonder.”

“Out,” came the abrupt reply.

Kingsley hastily pushed that heretical thought from his mind, and gave himself a mental slap in the face and a good stern talking to.

4. AWOL

Special Investigator Morrison led them down a long, brightly lit corridor and ushered them into a small room. With the exception of a long table at the far end, a couple of hardback chairs and a stretch of ill-fitting linoleum on the floor, the room was empty. There was a small fluorescent strip light in the ceiling behind protective metal mesh and it had an annoying flicker.

“Off with your things. We'll be back in a minute,” the officer requested curtly and, leaving them at the door, he went off down the corridor.

Kingsley went over to the table and took off his headset, utility belt and holster, carefully arranging the items on the table top; then unzipped his jacket, neatly folded it and placed it beside the other items.

By this time, not being encumbered by such paraphernalia, the girl had unzipped the white nylon overalls that she'd been issued with, let the overalls slip to the floor, deftly stepped out of them, tossed the clothes on the table, and stood there stark naked, as if she did not have a care or moral scruple in the world.

“Do you mind?” Kingsley enquired, when he'd recovered his composure.

“Not at all. Do you?” was the girl's insolent reply.

“Less of the lip,” Kingsley retorted grumpily.

He turned away whilst he took off his boots, hopping around on one foot and clutching the edge of the table for support. Then he unzipped his trousers, before neatly folding them and adding them to the pile. He stood there, feeling uncomfortable in his regulation issue white vest and pants.

“Lesson number one, Mister Enforcer,” Potter informed him: “There is nothing inherently shameful about the adult human body. Rather, it is a gift to be enjoyed and celebrated.”

For a dissident, Potter spoke with an unusually refined accent, and she sounded to be well educated. It was also clear to Kingsley now, by this show of confidence, that the girl hadn't been quite as deeply hurt by what had befallen her whilst in custody as she had earlier made out. Either that or she was now putting on a brave face. Well, she might have fooled the Special Investigator, but she didn't fool him for one moment.

“If you say so.”

The girl laughed: “I'm sorry, here we are in the altogether and we haven't even been properly introduced. I'm Holly Potter.”

“What's holly?” he wanted to know.

“It's a plant that grows in nature,” the girl explained. “With apologies for its prickly nature. Now, I know that this might seem strange to you, but we don't precede our family names with our occupation; nor do we precede our occupation with 'Mister'. At birth, our parents give us personal names; or we adopt new personal names if we later convert to dissidence.”

To Kingsley, such a thing was almost unthinkable.

She came forward with her arm extended and, involuntarily averting his eyes, he turned and returned the handshake, then turned away again. “Enforcer Kingsley,” he returned defiantly.

“Not any more, you're not,” Morrison informed him as he returned to the room with a tall pile of fresh clothing and placed it on the table. “It's Rowan Kingsley from now on.”

Kingsley turned to the girl for clarification.

“Rowan is a type of tree,” she explained. “It bears edible orange-red, berry-like fruit. I like it, Rowan. It's a good name for you. Some call it Witchbane.”

“And the rest,” Morrison requested, craning his long neck and looking Kingsley up and down with disdain.

“The rest of what?” Kingsley enquired.

“The vest and pants,” Potter suggested. “They have Enforcement written all over them.”

Again Kingsley turned away from the girl and complied with the order. She came forward and lightly slapped him on the butt.

“What was that for?” he wanted to know.

Again the girl laughed. “I was just being playful,” she replied, as if that explained anything. “You have such a lot to learn, Rowan Kingsley. And a great deal more to unlearn.”

“What do you mean, 'not any more, you're not'?” Kingsley enquired, when he was dressed again in the civilian clothes, matching plain black trouser suits, that the Special Investigator had provided.

Morrison slapped two brown manilla folders down on the table top. “It's all explained in your files, so study them well. As of this moment, Kingsley, you are officially AWOL, and if you are spotted in the street you are liable to be arrested. So we're going to have to sneak you out of here using one of the service elevators. We have an unmarked van waiting for you in the basement car park and you'll be taken to your new abode. And you are not to set foot outside the apartment until you're thoroughly au fait with your new identity and Potter here has coached you in the dissident ways. Is that clear, Kingsley?”

“Crystal clear, Sir,” Kingsley replied, nodding his head in salute and clicking his heels together.

“And you're going to have to stop doing that straight away, Rowan,” the girl observed. “That kind of mannerism stinks of Fuss, and it could cost you your life. Regrettably, some of the dissidents, as you contemptuously refer to us, are somewhat more militant than my kind.”

“Sorry.”

Potter smiled at him. “Oh, don't worry, Rowan: we'll soon have you loosened up.”

“Loosened up? Don't you mean straightened out?”

The girl shook her head resolutely. “On the contrary, Rowan, you're already altogether too straightlaced for your own good, or for that of anyone else unfortunate enough to be associated with you. So the last thing you need is to be straightened out still further.”

He looked to Morrison to help him out, but the man merely shrugged. “It's all in a Good Cause.”

What Morrison really meant was “better you than me, old chap, that's all I can say”; but of course the man couldn't voice such a selfish sentiment, even in jest. You see, the conditioning didn't fully extinguish the Ego; it merely relegated it to a minor position and held it in restraint.

“Yeah, yeah,” Kingsley sighed. “Couldn't have happened to a nicer guy.”

Potter smiled at him. “I see you still have the vestiges of a sense of humour, Rowan. Now that's a good thing to hang onto. You may well need every last ounce of it when you're sent down. As we dissidents say, 'Fear is the lock and laughter the key.' It's a powerful thing to be able to laugh in the face of danger, and you never know, it may just save your life.”

Being sent down was a prospect that Kingsley was not at all looking forward to. He'd heard some real horror stories about life inside.

5. A change of abode

Potter had been arrested in a small town to the north and, like Kingsley, she had been abruptly relocated to the city, her own possessions having by then been confiscated and lost to her. The small, one bedroomed apartment they'd been given was one that had been occupied by dissidents before their arrest and incarceration, and fortunately all the previous tenants' furniture and possessions had been left behind untouched, so he and Potter didn't have to start again and build their lives from scratch.

On the surface, it looked like the apartment of any other Hive-abiding citizens. Everything on view in the apartment was of mass produced, regulation issue, right down to the plastic handled cutlery.

However, as Morrison had demonstrated, there was more to the apartment than met the casual or untutored eye. The far wall of the lounge was taken up in its entirety by a brown plastic wall unit. On the left, nearest the windows, were cupboards and a niche large enough to take a television; and on the right were several bookshelves, populated by suitably approved, compliant titles. But if you withdrew two fat volumes of an encyclopedia from one of the shelves, and felt inside, you'd find a hidden catch behind the books. And if you released this catch and pulled at the plastic frame, the whole bookcase swung out into the room on concealed hinges. Though the flat was too confined to hide a secret room, there was space enough behind the bookcase to house a second set of narrow shelves and cupboards, and indeed this is where the contraband was stored.

Once Morrison had gone and left them to it, Potter securely locked the front door behind him and checked the lounge windows. Fortunately, the previous occupants had installed translucent curtains and she was satisfied that there was no possibility of their being overlooked by nosey neighbours.

It was quite late in the day by now and neither of them had eaten since breakfast, so they went through to the kitchenette to see what they could rustle up. Potter retrieved a brightly decorated, floral apron from the cubbyhole and had it tied around her waist.

The woman unpacked the food that Morrison had left them, then checked through the kitchen cupboards and refrigerator to see if any other food had been. She heaved a deep sigh.

“What's wrong, Potter?” he asked.

The girl turned around to face him, sleeves rolled up, hands on hips and a very business-like expression etched on her features. “Let's get one thing straight, Mister. I'm the coach here and you're the student, so what I say goes. Right?”

“Right, Potter.”

“Wrong, Rowan,” she retorted. “If you're to pass muster amongst the dissidents, you're going to have to get into our way of doing things. So you don't call me Potter. You call me by my personal name, Holly.”

“Right, Holly.

“Well, that's a start, Rowan, but it's still not quite right. When you address me, you need to drop the oh-so-official and disdainful tone and express the affection you have toward me. I'm meant to be your lover, remember, not your co-worker or snout. And you can also use other terms of endearment like darling and sweetheart.”

“Sweetheart?” he frowned. “We're sorry ...”

“Not we're sorry, Rowan: I'm sorry,” she corrected, giving him a gentle clip round the ear. He assumed that this was also what she termed being playful.

“I'm sorry, Potter – I mean, I'm sorry, Holly – but we don't even know what that means.”

“I don't even know what that means,” she corrected him a second time and he dodged out of the way this time before she clipped his ear. “What you mean is 'It does not compute'. Heavens, Rowan, what are you, a man or a machine?”

The girl breathed another deep sigh. “I can see that this is going to be a challenging assignment for the both of us.” Then she lightened up. “Look, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bark at you. Hey, Rowan, don't worry. It's still early days for us, and I'm sure we'll make a great team once we've got a few wrinkles ironed out.”

“Anyhow.” The girl went back to the refrigerator, pulled out a couple of cartons and checked the use by date on the back. “I'm sorry, but it looks like we'll have to manage with this ready meal tonight. What Morrison left for is next to useless. The man simply has no idea. Anyhow, chicken or beef: take your pick.”

“Beef would suit me fine,” Kingsley nodded.

“Two things, Rowan. The first is that that is the wrong answer. The correct answer is to ask the other person which they'd prefer.”

“Yes, you just did,” Kingsley replied. “And I said beef.”

“Let me rephrase that, Rowan. The chivalrous and gallant answer – especially by a gentleman to a lady, a youngster to an elder or a host to a guest – is to give the other person the first choice by asking them which they'd prefer.”

“Chivalrous?” he queried.

“I know, don't tell me: This does not compute.” The girl shrugged her shoulders. “Whatever, it's all grist for the mill and something else we can work on later.”

“And the other thing, Holly?” Kingsley queried.

Holly scratched her chin thoughtfully. “Other thing? I'm sorry, but I've lost my train of thought in all the excitement.”

“You said that there were two things wrong with having a ready meal.”

She nodded. “Oh yeah. Well you see, Rowan, this kind of food is just processed junk. It's not good for your body. But above all, nor is it good for your mind.”

Kingsley looked askance. “How so?”

“Well, first off, it's got very little nutritional value.”

“Sure, I can see that,” he nodded, though truth be told, he very rarely read the list of ingredients.

“Secondly, there are certain chemicals which are used in the production to colour, flavour or preserve the food; and also chemicals that are used in the plastic packaging of the food and which seep into that food.”

“Is that a bad thing?” he asked.

“Very bad, Rowan. Especially the chemicals used in the plastic.”

Something dawned on Kingsley at that moment. “So that's why dissidents avoid the use of plastic or cover it up, right?”

“Exactly, Rowan. Now you're learning. Some of the chemicals affect brain chemistry and mess with the mind. They subdue, dumb down, assist in the conditioning process and make people more compliant.”

“We see,” Kingsley nodded, and for the first time he actually did. “I mean, I see.”

Holly smiled and gently stroked his arm. “Yes, Rowan, I believe that you do see.

“But back to the chemical goo. That would be bad enough if it were merely accidental; but it's not, you see. The Powers That Be know full well what's going on and worse than doing nothing about it, they actually secretly encourage such use. And, what's more, even the tap water is unsafe to drink unfiltered these days.”

“It's surely for Our Greater Good,” he contested.

“According to the Powers That Be it is, Rowan. You know, they speak of Hive Mind, but really when you delve more deeply, you'll find that it's more a case of the farmyard or the ant heap.”

Kingsley stood his ground. “Holly, sweetheart, please don't take me for a fool. If you are attempting to convert me, let me assure you: it will not happen.”

Holly clapped her hands together and abruptly broke Kingsley's train of thought. “Anyhow, Rowan, while I heat up the meal, be a dear and have a rummage in the cubbyhole. Find a tablecloth and bring out a couple of the ceramic plates, cups, saucers and cutlery.”

Kingsley complied and returned to the kitchenette to lay the table, under Holly's expert guidance. “No, Rowan,” she told him, shaking her head, “You may scrape up your food using a fork in your right hand like a shovel or mechanical digger; but whilst I'm here, we'll use a knife and fork, like good old-fashioned, civilized folk. Trust me: you don't want to look like you're back in the Service works canteen.”

Holly seemed to catch herself and softened her tone. She tenderly stroked his arm. “Anyhow, that's a job well done, my sweetheart, thank you.

“Now, in case I forget, remind me that bright and early tomorrow morning I must hunt through the city to see if I can find someone who sells decent fresh food to cook from scratch. It's not going to be easy, and it may take me a while, because I don't as yet have any dissident contacts in this city. That's one thing that the Fuss couldn't set up for us.”

“But how will you find others?” Kingsley wanted to know.

“Oh there are signs, sweetheart, if you know where to look and what to look for,” Holly reliably informed him.

He raised his eyebrows. “Can you make me a list?”

“No, I cannot,” she replied, shaking her head firmly. “It's doesn't work like that, Rowan. In fact, it's a lot more arcane. It's something that's caught more than taught. I guess you could write an A to Z of dissidence, but it wouldn't help you out one iota about what it's like to actually be dissident. Just as the idea of an orange is not the same as its smell or taste, there's a still further range: the experience of actually eating the orange and benefiting from it.”

“I'm not quite with you,” he replied, rather puzzled by Holly's response.

“You could say that we simply recognize one-another, Rowan. And that's the chief reason that we really need to work on schooling you – and ultimately that depends on involving you and engaging you in dissidence. And I tell you, sweetheart, there are few harder, more wearing tasks in the world than having to pretend to be what you are not, in order to comply with societal – or in your case, dissident – mores. This causes real inner conflict, which wastes a great deal of psychic and emotional energy that might be more productively used elsewhere.”

At that moment, the microwave oven pinged and again Holly clapped her hands. “Right, Rowan, that's more than enough philosophy for now. Such as it is, let's grab this food whilst it's still warm.”

Once dinner was out of the way, Kingsley helped Holly tidy up in the kitchen. He was just about to stack the plates in the dishwasher, but Holly stopped him.

“No, no,” she insisted.

“Oh come on, Holly. Everyone who is anyone uses a dishwasher and other labour saving devices in these modern times,” he protested.

“And anyone with a mind of their own and a brain not on autopilot would see the folly of that,” Holly countered. “There are only one or two things, so I'll wash them by hand and you can hand dry them with a tea towel. It will only take a few minutes, it'll save a great deal of water and electricity, and the exercise will do you good.”

“It's hardly exercise, Holly,” he scoffed.

“Listen, tough guy, exercise isn't all about physical muscles, you know,” Holly replied pointedly. “Or on second thoughts, perhaps you don't know. Those who don't know – and know that they don't know – can always be helped. So think on, Rowan Kingsley. Now find a tea towel and make yourself useful.

“Oh and another thing, Rowan,” Holly added, standing there with her hands on her hips. “When you've used the loo, the polite thing to do is to lower the seat for the ladies. And also, when you've finished with the toothpaste, please replace the cap.”

“Sheesh woman, don't you ever let up? What did your last slave die of? No, don't tell me: it certainly wasn't through boredom, that's for sure!” He threw his arms in the air in exasperation, turned on his heel and headed for the living room muttering to himself under his breath.

“One day, you're gonna thank me,” she called after him, with a confident lilt in her voice.

“Yes, Sergeant Major,” he returned. It was like being back in ruddy boot camp. But, of course, the sergeant major had eventually been proved right, much as he'd detested the evil little four-eyed man at the time.

After they were done and Holly had brewed a coffee, they sank down on the settee to let their dinner settle and relax for a time. Kingsley had found the remote control and was idly flicking through the television channels searching for something worth watching, but Holly snatched the controller from him and tossed it to one side.

“Hey come off it, Holly,” he protested.

“If you want to infiltrate the dissidents, you're going to have to start thinking and acting like one, Rowan,” she informed him sternly. “The media – and especially the television, since these days it's so 'in your face' all day long – is full of propaganda and subtle conditioning. And that's really not going to help right now. It will simply undo any progress we make together.”

“Okay, you're the boss,” he shrugged.

“Damn right I am, Mister,” the girl laughed, reaching over to tickle his ribs until he was squirming, begging for mercy and crying out for her to stop. The Investigators might have had better results if they'd resorted to tickle torture instead of applied psychology, pain and reward, because the dissidents were notoriously hard to crack.

Holly got up and went to switch on the radio, winding the dial through a number of channels like the Religious Channel which was playing that rousing hymn Hive of Plenty, until she found the station she was looking for. Having adjusted the volume, she returned to the settee and settled back down.

There was a song playing on the radio and when it dawned on Kingsley what they were singing about, and with such a lascivious choice of words, he sat bolt upright and turned to Holly. “What on earth is going on?” he wanted to know.

Holly slapped her thigh and laughed. “Relax, Rowan. It's not one of the approved FM stations. This is the old AM range and it's one of the pirate stations.”

“Well, I'm surprised that the authorities haven't shut it down,” he huffed.

“They're operating from a ship miles off the coast, Rowan, and they keep moving around, so there's really not a lot that the authorities can do about it. Every time the Powers That Be shut down one station, another simply pops up elsewhere.”

Holly moved closer to him on the settee and gently patted his arm. “Anyhow, Mister Enforcer, I think that it's time you clocked off for the day, don't you? Simply sit back, relax and enjoy the music.”

The irony was not lost on Kingsley and he raised his eyebrows. “You might take your own advice, lady.”

“Ooh, touché!” she laughed.

“Come on, admit it: I got you there,” he pressed.

Holly held her hands up in mock surrender and put on a husky voice. “Alright, Governor. It's a fair cop.”

At that point, a thought must have occurred to Holly. “Won't be a minute, Rowan, so don't go away.”

She sprang from the settee, went across to the shelves and rummaged around in the secret cupboards for a time, then she headed for the kitchen.

While Holly was away, tired after the long day, Kingsley had begun to drift off into sleep.

“Hey, sleepy head,” Holly greeted him on her return, and she shook him by the arm to rouse him.

“What's the matter, don't you like my company?” the girl laughed, pulling up an occasional table by the settee before disappearing into the kitchen again. She returned with a couple of glasses, filled almost to the brim with some kind of amber liquid, and held one out for him to take before sitting down beside him.

Holly reached over and gently clinked her glass against his, so that they chimed together. “Cheers,” she smiled, taking a sip of her own drink. “It's an old folk custom, from a time when people still believed in good luck, magic, fairies at the bottom of the garden and other benevolent, guiding spirits,” she explained. “You clink your glasses together and salute one-another with 'Cheers' or 'Bottoms up' or 'Your good health'. Go on, you give it a try.”

Kingsley tentatively moved his glass close to Holly's, being careful not to spill the drink, and gently clinked his glass against hers. “Cheers,” he smiled.

“Cheers, Rowan,” she echoed, taking another sip of her drink. “Your good health.”

“What is it?” he wanted to know, taking a sip. The drink had a fruity taste and it felt quite warm and fiery on the way down.

Then a terrible thought occurred to him and he put his glass down on the table beside the settee. “It's alcohol, isn't it? Heavens, woman, whatever were you thinking?”

Holly shook her head. “Rowan Kingsley, I thought I told you earlier to hang up your uniform, and yet I see that you're still wearing it. Now listen to me: if you intend mixing with the dissidents, then you'd better get used to alcohol and get used to handling yourself when you're under the influence of alcohol. Don't worry, it'll just make you feel slightly squiffy, but taken in moderation, it won't rot your liver or your Hive-like mind. Now pick up your glass and have another sip.”

“Squiffy?” he queried.

“Drunk,” she explained. “Loosened up, care free and merry.”

Kingsley took another sip and a third.

“Don't swallow it straight away,” Holly advised. “Roll the drink around in your mouth and savour it before you swallow.”

He took a fourth sip and did his best to comply.

“Don't worry, Rowan, it'll come naturally soon enough. Anyhow, excuse me for a minute or two and I'll be back.”

Another light seemed to have come on in Holly's head and she was rummaging in the secret cupboards again. Heaven only knows what she'd would come up with next. She was like a conjurer pulling rabbits and doves and bunches of flowers from her magic hat. Clutching something to her chest, Holly disappeared into the bedroom.

When ten minutes had passed and Holly still hadn't reappeared, Kingsley stood up. It even crossed his mind that she might have pulled a flanker on him and done a runner. Only then did he realize that he was feeling a little lightheaded and slightly unsteady on his feet. Presumably this was what it felt like to be “slightly squiffy”. Either that or he'd been drugged.

“Are you alright in there, Holly? Do you need any help?” he called out in a loud, anxious voice.

“Yes, I'm fine, Rowan,” the girl called back. Her voice sounded soften now and more melodic. “I'll just be a couple of minutes, so be a dear: go through to the kitchen and top up our glasses, would you?”

When Kingsley returned from the kitchenette, walking slowly so as not to spill the drinks, he found Holly already sitting there on the settee, and he was astonished to see her utterly transformed. As he carefully set the drinks down on the table, his hands trembling with suppressed excitement, she stood up and gave him a twirl.

When Holly had entered the bedroom, she had been wearing her baggy, regulation black trouser suit and now she wore a brightly patterned ankle length skirt with an elasticated waist, and a loose top to match. And judging by the way she joggled about in her top and her nipples formed a clear outline in the material, Holly had dispensed with her regulation issue padded bra.

“Do you mind?” he enquired, and he reached forward to run his fingers over her sleeve. “It's not nylon. What kind of material is this?”

“It's cheesecloth, which is cotton,” the girl informed him. “And it's not made of plastic but grown in fields the old-fashioned way and spun into thread which is woven and then the pattern is printed on the material.”

Holly had moved closer to him as she spoke, so close in fact, that he could feel her warm breath on his face and smell her scent – another banned substance. “What's that fragrance?” he wanted to know.

“It's made from the essence of rose blossoms,” she told him.

He backed away nervously, sat back down on the settee and handed Holly her drink. His hand was trembling quite markedly by now and he had to be especially careful as they clinked their glasses together.

“Why, Rowan, your hands are trembling,” Holly noted and she clasped his hand in hers. “My, my. Fancy that: a big brave man like you all a-quiver, over a sweet and innocent little thing like me,” she added with a wry smile.

“It's most likely the alcohol,” he replied, pulling his hand away. “And let me remind you: it will take far more than this to turn me, if that's your game. You don't fool me for an instant, young lady.”

Holly shook her head. “No, Rowan, it's not the drink. If anything, that will help to relax you. It's just that you are so unaccustomed to being in the presence of a lady of the opposite sex and, quite understandably, you're excited. It's what dissidents term being 'turned on'.”

Kingsley edged a little further away. “The pursuit of individualist or sensual gratification is a sin against Hive Mind,” he protested.

Holly laughed and, moving closer, she ran her fingers over his chest. “That's codswallop. And if you're truly honest with yourself, if not with me, you know it.”

Kingsley looked askance. “What's codswallop?”

“I mean that it's absolute nonsense and you know that deep down, Rowan. That's just your conditioned mind talking – the buffoon whom you've foolishly elected to be the spokesperson for the madcap circus you're running. Just like the Hive itself, inside your head it's all the idiots and the scaremongers who are in charge. If you were to take away the Hive Mentality that's artificially binding them together, you'd find that they've each got their own myopic and uncoordinated agenda. And if you actually did that, and all the stage scenery in this ghost town collapsed around you, you really would be left wondering 'Who the hell am I?'”

Kingsley could feel a lump welling up in his throat and he was visibly shaken. “Sheesh woman, you don't pull your punches, do you? That was some seriously heavy duty shit you just laid on me.”

“Your friend Morrison doesn't know the half of it,” Holly smiled enigmatically. She reached over to the table and fetched their drinks. “Here, get the rest of this down your neck and then I think that we should turn in for the night. I have an early start tomorrow.”

Holly downed her own drink and then jumped up from the settee and went through the flat making sure that everything was locked up and turned off, then she went to pick up the empty glasses to wash and dry before returning them to the cupboard and making sure that the bookcase was safely back in place. Chances were that they were safe from raids, but it was always best to err on the safe side of caution.

“Come on, up you get sleepy head,” Holly requested as she returned, and she gently tugged him to his feet and led him through to the bedroom. She was glad now that she'd put clean sheets on the obligatory twin beds earlier, as by now she was indeed feeling more than a little squiffy herself.

Going to have one last check around the apartment to make sure all incriminating evidence had been removed, she did indeed find a piece of stray tinfoil that had covered the cork on the wine bottle before she'd opened it. Small this might have been, but insignificant it most certainly was not, so she had no choice really but to open up the bookcase and stash it inside. This was the kind of habit that had to become thoroughly engrained and second nature, so that you could carry it out on autopilot when you were blind drunk, just as a recruit might be taught to disassemble and reassemble a gun whilst blindfolded; and the more one practised, the better one became.

By the time Holly had returned to the bedroom, she found that Rowan had already undressed and – quite unlike the typical man – she noted that he'd very carefully folded his clothes on the bedside chair. He'd even tucked one sock inside the other, as you might after doing the laundry, so that strays would not be lost and orphaned. Again, like the nod in salute, this was a dead giveaway, and so she made a special effort to disarrange his neat pile before getting undressed and climbing into her own bed.

Rowan was fast asleep and away with the fairies, snorting and snoring from time to time, and murmuring in his dreams. However, for no doubt obvious reasons Holly seemed to have a lot on her mind that night and, tossing and turning, she found it hard to get to sleep. Half way through the night, she decided to get up and went through to the kitchenette to make herself a warm mug of milky cocoa.

Her fellow dissidents would often get up in the middle of the night and even socialize after their first sleep, then return later for their second sleep; though this ancient practice was something that the rest of humanity had long forgotten as they went about their clockwork lives.

Holly suddenly stopped in her tracks and flushed with embarrassment. Only then did it occur to her that she hadn't been round the apartment checking for hidden cameras and bugs. She really wouldn't put anything past the spooks at Special Investigations, all the more so since they were the ones who'd decided where she and Rowan were to shack up. Special Investigations were pussycats compared to some, though. The worst were in Rehabilitation and for them she reserved the word “Creeps”. They had severely messed with the minds of several of her former friends. Their methods were especially crude and most of these former friends were now born again model citizens; lobotomized; or burnt out shells.

She waved her hands in the air and gave any potential eavesdroppers the middle finger. Bugged or not, the search would have to wait until morning. Oh dear, until even earlier than her intended trip into the city.

Returning to the bedroom with the half-consumed cocoa in her hand, she put her mug down on her bedside cabinet and went to tuck in Rowan's sheets. And then, on the spur of the moment, she changed her mind. Drawing back one edge of the sheet, she climbed in and snuggled up in the warmth beside him, and within moments, even before she'd remembered to finish off her cocoa, Holly fell into a deep and contented sleep.

At about six o'clock that morning she heard a sudden gasp and woke instantly; and seconds later Rowan snatched his hand from her breast and sat up in bed, muttering incoherently about carnal relations, sin, hellfire and damnation. She grabbed hold of Rowan's muscular arm, pulled him back down in bed and pressed the tips of her fingers to his mouth, and after some more protestation, he finally fell silent. Running her hand through his soft brown hair, she drew his head toward her and they kissed. At first he lay there like a stuffed dummy not knowing how to respond, but with a little encouragement, he quickly got the hang of kissing. Or at least Rowan figured out the mechanics: he was still so emotionally detached.

Again Rowan's large hand brushed over her chest and he involuntarily pulled back, but taking his hand in hers, she returned it to her heaving breast and encouraged him to explore and lick his tongue around until, turned on herself, her nipples were flushed with blood and stood proud and erect. It was strange, because she could see that the mind conditioning was holding him back, and yet his deep breathing and emotional arousal was giving out an altogether different, almost diametrically opposed message. She could feel Rowan pressing up against her and there was no mistaking the fact that he was rising to the occasion, nor denying the unmistakable warm, moist yearning in her own loins. It was as if instead of merely subduing the Ego, the conditioning had created some kind of split personality that was forever skirmishing or at war with itself. The source of all worldly conflict had its origins in the psyche, of course, and it seemed that whilst the Hive Mentality had reduced that outward conflict, it was still being fought out, but now it was being fought even more within the individuals in the Hive.

This was a seminal moment for Rowan in a sacred initiation or rite of passage, and if he was to penetrate the dissident movement, it was vital that he should not falter or turn back at this point. With this in mind, Holly grabbed hold of Rowan, pulled him on top of her and, offering him a guiding hand, she let him into her inner sanctum. Clasping hold of his behind and pulling him toward her and deep within her, they made passionate love. Then later, when Rowan had recovered from his exertions and she had once more gained his full attention, he voluntarily came back for second helpings, calling her “sweetheart” and sounding like he really meant it. In that delicious, glorious, tingling moment, when they both climaxed in unison and felt at one with the universe, Holly knew that they had bonded and that she had succeeded in the first stage of her task.

And afterwards, for a few minutes before the alarm clock sounded, she lay quietly cradled in Rowan's strong arms, their skin still glistening with perspiration and delightfully warm to the touch, her head swimming in a cocktail of hormones and brain chemicals and basking in the delicious afterglow.

“Oh, blast it,” Holly cursed as all too soon the alarm clock sounded. The alarm was so painfully discordant and insistent and grated on her nerves to such an extent that it simply could not be ignored for more than a few brief seconds.

She reached out, quickly silenced the wretched device and pushed herself out of bed before she fell for the temptation to snatch just a few more minutes' sleep. Oh, for the good life before the Hive had risen to power, when people's lives weren't so tightly regulated and run on clockwork but instead followed a more natural circadian rhythm. That was a time when lives were driven by simple pleasures as well as real human needs, and not by the dispassionate mechanical desires of the system in furtherance of its own ends.

Rowan had stirred, but had fallen back asleep again, so she left him to enjoy a little more well deserved sleep, pulled on her fluffy white cotton bathrobe and headed for the kitchen to down a mug of strong coffee before taking a shower.

Then, having got dressed and made a second mug of strong coffee, Holly went through to gently rouse Rowan.

“Wakey, wakey, sleepy head,” she lilted, going over to open the bedroom curtains and flooding the room with light.

Rowan sat up in bed, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “Morning,” he murmured.

“There's a coffee for you on your bedside table, sweetheart,” she informed him, giving him a friendly peck on the cheek as she passed.

Rowan was half out of bed now and still not quite in the land of the living. “Woss up?” he wanted to know.

“No, no. Stay there and enjoy your coffee, Rowan. You don't have work to go to, and there's no rush. Just get up when you feel like it.”

The man required no further encouragement. He got back in bed and reached out for his drink, and she left him to it. First thing after breakfast, she'd have a good look round the flat to make sure Special Investigations hadn't left any eavesdropping devices; then she must head into the city to see if she could make contact with any other dissidents and rustle up some real food.

Had they been living in the country, they could have grown their own of course; but here in the city they'd be wholly reliant on the black market. The dissident black market, that was. There were also corrupt and criminal elements offering such services, but these came at a high price and she and her kind would have nothing to do with the Crims. Many of these people had no conscience or moral scruples and they'd be all smiles and take your money in one moment and sell you down the river in the next.

Of course, not all criminals were psychopaths and not all psychopaths were criminal. But there was one point about which the dissidents and the Establishment could perhaps agree? Psychopaths were present at all levels of society and a disproportionate number of them – especially the charismatic who hid their evil nature so well – held positions of influence and power in the Hive. However, whilst a dissident could always be reconditioned; by and large there was still no known cure for that true bane of society.

As Holly finished her sweep of the apartment, fortunately without finding any bugs, Rowan emerged from the bedroom wrapped in a bathrobe that she'd found for him, and she left what she was doing and went over to give him a hug. He accepted the hug but didn't really return it, and she could see that they still had a great deal of work before them before he'd truly begin to pick and choose for himself and to loosen up.

Holly looked at her watch and shrugged. “Well, sweetheart, time's pressing and I need to go into the city. Wish me luck.”

“Good luck,” he nodded.

She guided Rowan through to the kitchen. “Just take whatever you need. There's not much coffee left, but help yourself. I'll bring a few supplies back with me. Grab a shower and breakfast. And while I'm away, feel free to laze about and listen to the radio, or whatever turns you on.”

Holly caught sight of herself in the wall mirror and she was shocked to see the dark rings under her eyes and just how stressed she looked. Of course it was nothing that a little makeup wouldn't cover up. However, the Hive had even banned cosmetics now. In some ways that was a good thing, because she was all for the natural look; but there were times like this when a little foundation wouldn't go amiss and she'd have liked to have had the choice. Well, there was no point in getting herself worked up or depressed about that.

“Anyway must dash, so I'll love you and leave you and see you later. I'll most likely be back mid-afternoon,” she smiled, giving Rowan a peck on the cheek as he followed her back into the living room. And with that, she was out of the door and off downstairs with a spring in her step.

6. The big city

If there was one thing that Holly hated as much as the Hive Mentality, it was the endless homogeneous concrete, steel and glass of the modern day city and the rigid way in which the streets were laid out in an arithmetic grid. She felt so anonymous and insignificant, overawed and lost amidst the bustling crowds.

Of course there was an up-side to having numbered streets: not knowing the city and not having a map, it would be that much easier to get her bearings, follow any directions she was given, and find her way safely back home again. If you were on “Mill Hill” and needed to get back home to “Acacia Avenue”, you might find yourself in difficulties, since there was no mental picture as yet established between the two. But with numbers, it was simply a matter of pointing yourself in the right direction and infallibly counting off the numbered street signs as you went until you arrived at your destination. But then where was the fun and the challenge in that? You could probably train a rat or a robot to do that much.

What bothered her more than anything was that virtually all the wonderfully quirky and individualist remnants of the preceding civilization had been torn down and built upon by the time she was a young child. Now they lived on only in the hearts and minds of the dissidents, and especially the elders, and in what literature, photographs, paintings, other works of art and craft and traditions that they'd managed to secretly preserve.

Holly had mixed feelings about this. The destruction and the impositions of the Hive Mentality greatly saddened her; and yet the efforts of the dissidents to preserve the old ways also gave her hope and heartened her and raised her spirits. The dissidents themselves, as well as their work, were a yeast or leaven in society.

The Establishment had a peculiarly biased view of what it was to be a dissident. They saw the dissident as a shameless, wanton hedonist; as someone whose aims was wilfully and diametrically opposed to the Greater Good of Hive Mind. They called dissidence the Cult of the Individual and they saw Egotism as some kind of pathological infectious cultural disease, or the root of all evil, something which must be eradicated at all costs; whilst the dissidents themselves realized and appreciated that egotism did cause major issues and that this was something that they would have to patiently work on. The individual might work on it over the course of a lifetime, whilst the culture worked on it from one generation to the next.

But in opposing the Hive Mentality and the regime behind it, it really wasn't that dissidents like Holly were in opposition to the greater good of society. The majority of her fellow dissidents held quite laudable spiritual views and lived loving and caring lives. For that matter, some were even of a Collectivist persuasion and yearned to live in communes with like-minded people. It was simply that they valued individuals as unique human beings with inalienable human rights of their own, and they also valued the worthy contribution that the individual made to humankind, both as an individual and also as part of a team. Without an individual being and without voluntary individual effort and without brave entrepreneurs and farsighted visionaries, there would simply be no coherent plan, be no real pulling together and be no Greater Good.

As with so many other things in life, it was surely about finding a natural balance and dynamic equilibrium; rather than having some lifeless, lopsided mechanical system indiscriminately imposed upon everyone.

If Holly were asked to sum all this up in a sentence, she might say that the dissidents were round blocks to society's square holes; and that whilst the average Hive-abiding citizen was straight and rigid and their minds were closed, her kind were largely flexible and loose and open minded. And above all, they were caring and loving people.

It didn't take Holly long to find her first fellow dissidents. There was a group of youths and one or two young girls sitting at a table in the sun outside a café; and seeing them sniggering, she could tell in an instant that they had been smoking weed and were wearing sunglasses to hide their dilated pupils. For heaven's sake, even a rookie Enforcer straight out of boot camp could have told her that. One of the youths had spotted her, too, which was rather disconcerting; but she surreptitiously shook her head, averted her eyes and walked straight past, knowing that it would be sheer folly to be seen with this motley crew. Especially with CCTV cameras everywhere, chances were that the Investigators would already have the group under observation, in the sure and certain knowledge that sooner or later these smoked sprats would lead them to bigger fish.

7. Not a wise move

Kingsley eventually emerged from the shower after a long and luxurious soak. It really was a novelty and he was determined to make the most of it. This was one of the few times since he'd joined the Service that he didn't have to gallop around the flat pulling on his clothes as he went, make a mad dash for the car and burn rubber to get to work on time. Of course the solution would have been simple: to set the alarm clock a few minutes earlier and actually get out of bed when the alarm went off. He could see that now in the calm light of day; but at the time, for one reason or another, this didn't happen.

Without even realizing that he'd been backsliding, he'd simply fallen into bad habits, to the point that dashing around like a headless chicken had become a way of life for him. Maybe he was hooked on the adrenaline rush that he got from living on the edge, in frequent danger of stepping over the threshold and breaking the rules? Who knows? Looking back, he could see that he'd always been a bit of a rule bender.

As Kingsley was reminded daily, out on the beat, people do the craziest things which they often consider quite normal, until the day they get pulled in and find themselves banged up in a cell. At that point, finally seeing things in black and white and realizing that all the “ifs” and “buts” and shades of grey and psychedelic colours in the world, that they'd used to justify their actions, aren't going to offer them one iota of help, cold stark reality hit them like a heavily-laden freight train.

This was a profound culture shock as much as anything, and especially so for the dissidents. By and large, the criminals knew that they were doing wrong; whilst the dissidents fervently believed that they were doing right. The criminals could accept justice, seeing it as a potential and legitimate liability on their corporate balance sheet. Some years they'd make a fat profit and other years they'd make a loss: that was the nature of the business they were in. But when the dissidents were faced with the cold, hard letter of the Law, which they actually took to be injustice, seeing themselves as victims and martyrs of a supposedly misguided and corrupt system, the cognitive dissonance – and the judiciary – hit them all the harder.

Once Kingsley was dressed and spruced up, he headed for the kitchen to make himself another coffee, finishing off one carton of milk. Opening another to pour on his cereal, however, and taking his first bite, he cringed and spat the cereal back into the bowl. The milk had begun to turn sour. And, bless her, Holly wouldn't be back from town until mid-afternoon.

Well, there was only one thing for it, Kingsley decided, going through to the hallway to retrieve his jacket. He'd have to throw caution to the wind, go out to find a local shop and buy some more.

Kingsley left the flat and, only vaguely knowing the neighbourhood, he chose a direction at random and set off to circle the block; and if that failed, not letting his Service training go to waste, then he'd widen his search to adjacent blocks. In a residential area such as this, there had to be small shops somewhere nearby, if they hadn't been forced out of the market by the big high street names.

Sure enough, Kingsley spotted a convenience store on the next block and he quickly crossed the road toward it. Catching himself marching along, swinging his right arm in time with his left leg – which was another thing that Holly had warned him about – he thrust his hands in his jacket pockets and deliberately slackened his pace.

At the door, he had to smartly step to one side as three youths piled out onto the street and still they rudely barged past him. Had he been in uniform, he'd have stood his ground and reprimanded the youths, but eager to maintain a low profile, he bit his tongue and quietly entered the shop.

Kingsley found the refrigerator soon enough and he picked up a couple of cartons of milk and headed for the counter. The sooner he was out of the shop, the better. He'd spotted a couple of CCTV cameras out of the corner of his eye and avoiding the involuntary urge to look up at the cameras, he kept his head low.

As he reached the counter, he spotted a third camera and his heart skipped a beat when he heard the whirr. The camera had swung round to face him and the lens was being turned to bring the image into focus. The shop assistant took one of the milk cartons from him and swept it through the bar code reader twice, without so much as a flicker of a smile or even a polite, businesslike please and thank you. Presumably personalized service cost extra, Kingsley mused. He swiped his temporary credit card through the machine on the counter, made a special point of loudly thanking the woman – thinking, if nothing else it might tweak her conscience – took his milk and hastily made for the exit.

On his way out of the shop, he caught sight of something that nearly stopped him dead in his tracks, but he gritted his teeth and walked out onto the street. By the door there was a pile of free local newspapers – the type that were full of advertisements and advertorials – and there on the front page, beneath a sensational, inch high headline, there he was. Fortunately it was an old Service shot of him in uniform and fresh out of boot camp, but he hadn't changed much since then, other than putting on a bit of weight and looking considerably more grim faced.

Glancing back, Kingsley could see that the shop assistant was already on the phone. He knew then that he'd been rumbled and he cursed himself for his stupidity.

He was just coming to the end of the block when he caught sight of the patrol car turning the corner and, spotting a narrow alleyway, Kingsley thrust the cartons of milk into his jacket pockets and dived for cover down there. As he ran, he snatched the disrupter from his inside pocket, flipped off the safety catch and primed the weapon.

Moments later, he heard a shout from behind him. One of the Enforcers had spotted him and he was giving chase on foot. Without further warning the man fired and Kingsley could almost feel the charge as it flew past overhead, exploded against a wall and ricocheted in a bright shower of sparks.

Kingsley dived behind a metal refuse bin, took aim and fired off a burst of three charges, adjusting his aim as the Enforcer ducked this way and that. The first two missed but the third hit the Enforcer full in the face and, since the idiot hadn't dropped his protective visor, it felled him in a stroke and he was thrown backwards to land flat out on his back.

Kingsley got up and dashed toward the far end of the alleyway. If these guys had any sense, the Enforcer's partner would by now have driven the patrol car round the block to cut off his escape and box him in.

He had just reached the end of the alley and was about to check when he heard an unmistakable sound to his left and he instantly froze. Someone had just primed a disrupter and – contrary to safety regulations – was holding it mere inches from his unprotected head.

“Drop the gun, Kingsley,” the man ordered and he silently complied. He slowly and gingerly bent his knees and placed the weapon on the floor. Then he slowly raised himself up again and turned to face the man. It was his old partner.

“How you doing, Jenkins?” he addressed the Enforcer. “Long time no see.”

“A damn sight better than you'll be when you're banged up, Kingsley. They don't take kindly to ex-Fuss inside,” the man replied matter-of-factly. “Most likely the big boys'll drill you a new asshole in a larger, more accommodating gauge.

“Now, no sudden moves. You know the procedure. Step away from the gun. Now, lay out on the floor, face down, with your hands clasped behind your head.”

Kingsley had no option but to comply and Jenkins flipped up his visor, reached in his pocket and brought out a cable tie to cuff him.

That's as far as the man got, however. In that instant something whistled through the air. Kingsley looked up sharply and saw Jenkins clutching his face. A second charge flew through the air and the man's legs gave way beneath him and he slumped to the ground.

Kingsley pushed himself to his feet and snatched up his gun, ready for anything, and when he turned in the direction from which the shot had been fired, he saw another familiar, lanky figure standing there. It was Special Investigator Morrison.

“I'm very disappointed in you, Kingsley,” the man sighed as he approached, shaking his head from side to side. “Now get the fuck out of here. We'll put this gaff down to experience. But if I see your butt ugly face on the street again without permission, be warned that I'll take you out myself.”

Kingsley required no second telling and he quickly headed back to the flat with his tail firmly stuffed between his legs and still cursing his gross stupidity. It was the kind of mistake that a rookie would have made, and a dumb rookie at that.

8. Off the beaten track

Having pretty much exhausted the two high streets in this quarter of the city, Holly decided that it would be better to check out the side streets. Most of the old shops run by independent retailers had been shut long ago and the premises converted into flats, but there were still one or two still defiantly flying the confederate flag and hanging on.

Holly soon came across one, down a narrow lane. A simple, flaking painted sign read “Books” and an arrow pointed inside, so she pushed the old door open with a squeak of unoiled hinges and clambered up a steep flight of woodworm-infested steps. There were ledges on the walls of the staircase, piled high with books, and at the top, the whole room was filled with densely packed bookcases, with still more books loosely piled on the floor, utilizing every ounce of space.

As Holly entered the room, she saw an elderly lady sitting there at a tiny makeshift desk. She still had her outdoor coat on and an eccentric, multi-hewed knitted hat on her head that looked like an old tea cosy. In fact, it probably had been a tea cosy at one time.

“Good morning,” the lady smiled as Holly entered, looking up from her knitting. “Come on in, our love. There's no obligation to buy anything: feel free to browse.”

Holly knew in an instant that the lady was a dissident, but she decided to bide her time. “Thank you,” she smiled back and nodded, moving further into the room to have a look at the dusty tomes.

Certainly, many of the secondhand books were old, but none of them predated the Hive and not surprisingly there wasn't a whiff of dissidence in any of the titles. But still, Holly had a good look round the collection before finally turning back toward the door.

Seeing her about to leave, the old lady put down her knitting and looked up. “Not found anything that takes your fancy, our love?” she asked.

“Afraid not,” Holly sighed. Then, on the spur of the moment, she decided to throw caution to the wind. “I must say, I do like your tea-cosy. Did you knit it yourself?”

In that instant, a broad smile creased the old lady's face from ear to ear, and her hazel eyes lit up. “Oh, it's older than that, my love. My own dear mother knit it, more years ago than I care to remember. Knitting is an old tradition in our family, handed down from mother to daughter since time immemorial.”

Holly beamed. “Yes, I thought that might be the case.”

“Gladys Bagshaw. I'm pleased to meet you, my love,” the old lady replied, extending a soft, wrinkled hand.

Holly gently returned the handshake. “Holly Potter, and I'm very pleased to meet you, too, Gladys.”

The old lady nodded her head toward a kettle. “Fancy a cuppa? Then you can tell me your story, my love.”

“That's kind of you, Gladys. Yes, I'd love one. I've been traipsing the high streets for hours hoping to make contact with another sentient soul and I'm quite parched.”

“Are you new around here, then?” Gladys enquired when she'd checked that there was enough water in the kettle and switched it on.

“Yes,” Holly nodded. “I've just moved here from a town in the north and of course I don't know anyone here as yet. I was hoping to find supplies of decent food. I mean real food that I can cook from scratch ...”

“... Not processed muck. I know exactly what you mean, Holly,” Gladys interjected.

The lady tossed three spoonfuls of tea into the teapot. “One per cup and one for the pot,” she explained.

“Gosh, I didn't even know that you could get real tea these days,” Holly remarked.

“That's one of the few good things about living in the city,” Gladys told her as she poured in the boiling water and gave the pot a stir. “I'm afraid that I can't go naming my sources, but over the years I've become rather well connected, my love, so just make me a list and I'll see what I can get hold of for you. The suppliers will want the money up front, of course.”

“That's really kind of you, Gladys. And you'll want something for your own troubles. How long will that take?”

“Oh no, I couldn't take your money, Holly. It's a labour of love for friends, you see. Now what day is it? Wednesday?”

Holly nodded.

The old lady gave the pot a final stir and held a strainer over the cups while she poured the tea out. She handed Holly her tea. “Help yourself to milk and sugar and a biscuit.”

“Well, they deliver in time for collection on Wednesdays and Saturdays,” the old lady continued. “So if I place your order after I close up today, it will be ready for Saturday.”

“Wow, that really is good of you,” Holly enthused.

“Now, while our tea's cooling, let me find a pen and you can have a look at their price list. Reel off the items you'd like and I'll write them down.”

A thought occurred to Holly as she ticked off the last item on her list. “Isn't this arrangement rather dangerous?” she pointed out.

Gladys tapped the side of her nose knowingly. In spite of her advancing years, the old lady was still as bright as a button. “None of this is without its inherent dangers, my love, but the system has been very carefully thought out, and I must say it's really quite ingenious when you know how. I'll let you into the secret when we're done. Anyhow, let's drink our tea before it goes cold, and do help yourself to the home baked biscuits.”

And, with that baby safely tucked up in bed, Holly thanked the old lady and went back to the high street to pick up a few essentials before returning to the flat.

The way the system worked was that your orders were split up and delivered to several local shops where they would be carefully packaged ready for collection. So you went into the shop, asked if a certain numbered order you'd placed was ready, and you picked the items up as if they were simply a part of your regular shopping. That way, there would be no suspicious deliveries to a black market warehouse, the bookshop or your own apartment; and no paperwork need be circulated containing incriminating details such as your name and address.

And what's more, dear old Gladys Bagshaw knew how to get hold of some more interesting and spicy titles. There were two in particular that Holly thought might interest and benefit Rowan – a bumper book of classical jokes and an antique tome entitled The Joy of Sex: The Timeless Guide to Lovemaking by Alex Comfort and Susan Quilliam – and she'd gleefully placed an order. If anything would loosen a man up and return him to his heaven-sent senses, other than a liberal dose of good old-fashioned rib-tickling humour, it would be to break the taboo of sensuality. Humour and sex could touch you in deeply hidden places that lesser therapies could only dream of reaching.

There was one overarching drive behind all this, and that was her desperate need to be finally reunited with her beloved toddler Jonathan. And if she had to take her kit off to achieve this, then so be it; for until she loosened Rowan up, there was no possibility of introducing him to the dissidents and completing her part in the obscene bargain that she'd been forced to make with Special Investigations.

9. The raid

Holly sighed quietly to herself. Rowan had loosened up considerably over the last few weeks, though he was still barely awake to reality, distinctly rough around the edges, and really still unfit to be let loose in the wild, as it were. She'd actually grown to enjoy Rowan's company as she'd peered beneath his frosty exterior persona; he was useful to have around; and, indeed, she'd grown quite fond of the guy, in spite of some of his annoying ways and habits.

She knew better than to judge Rowan, because she didn't see him as the enemy but rather as a fallen friend in need of love, care and compassion. There were few amongst them who hadn't strayed from the path or fallen from grace at one time or another, because it was so hard for people to bear their load, keep the faith and stay awake to reality, with the world being in the sorry state that it was.

Holly didn't think that Rowan was anywhere near ready to be let loose. However, Special Investigations were growing impatient and increasingly more threatening, so there was really nothing that Holly could do but comply. Unable to persuade Special Investigations to bide their time, she reluctantly prevailed upon her new-found friends and made arrangements for her and Rowan to attend one of their Thursday evening gatherings.

Drawing in a deep breath, she and Rowan entered the library and had just begun to make their way upstairs toward the meeting room when she caught hold of Rowan's arm and brought him to a halt.

“Sorry, I won't be a moment, Rowan. I'm afraid that all the excitement has gone to my bladder and I really need to spend a penny.”

Rowan smiled at her. “That's alright, I'll wait for you, love.”

Well, Rowan was learning, but chivalry was the last thing she needed right now. She clasped hold of his hand and reached up to plant a sloppy kiss on his cheek. “No, no, sweetie. You go on up and save us a table while you can, and I'll be with you in a minute.”

“Right oh,” he thankfully agreed and, blissfully unaware of what she was planning, he trotted upstairs to the meeting room.

As soon as Rowan was out of sight, Holly dashed to the ladies' loo and found a vacant cubicle. She took off her own coat and tossed it to one side; then fished in her bag, pulled on the spare jacket and bunched her hair up under a hat. Stuffing the coat into the bag, she left the cubicle, pushed the bag down into the bottom of the refuse bin and left the powder room. She immediately headed for the side door out of the library and dashing off down the nearby alleyway, she made good her escape.

~~~O~~~

Five minutes later, as arranged, Special Investigator Morrison gave the signal and a squad of Enforcement Officers left their vehicles and trotted across the car park to take up their positions. And, again at his signal, the Enforcers ran inside the library and took the stairs of the sweeping staircase two at a time. They paused at the entrance of the meeting room until they were all assembled, then burst in.

“Armed Enforcers!” a sergeant called out in warning. “Stay where you are! Armed Enforcers! Stay where you are! Hands behind your heads!”

The ladies in the meeting room put down their knitting and, looking more than a little puzzled, they turned their heads.

Just then, Special Investigator Morrison entered the room and the sergeant turned to him and shrugged his shoulders. “I think that there's been a mistake, Sir,” he offered.

“We should say so,” one of the ladies protested, waving a knitting needle menacingly in their direction. It was Gladys Bagshaw, the bookshop keeper. “This is the Ladies' Charity Knitting Circle, we'll have you know, young man, not some dissident coven.”

Special Investigator Morrison waved his hands in the air. “Our apologies, Madam. It would appear that we received incorrect intelligence. If you don't mind, we'll have a quick look around, and then you may go about your business.”

Just then, Kingsley slowly emerged from an adjacent room with his bag slung over one arm and carrying several cups and saucers on a silver tray. “It's okay, I think that I'm the one the Enforcers are looking for,” he announced, heading toward Gladys Bagshaw and handing her the tray.

“Ah, then our actions were not entirely ill-advised. You know the score, Kingsley. On the ground, if you please, sir,” Special Investigator Morrison commanded, taking this in his stride, and Kingsley dropped his bag to the floor and obediently lay down with his hands clasped behind his head.

Two of the Enforcers came forward now, fastened a cable tie round his wrists and heaved the man back onto his feet, while Morrison retrieved his bag and rummaged around inside.

Morrison pulled out a book. “The Joy of Sex, sir? Somehow, we don't think that this lascivious work is on the list of approved titles. Enforcer Kingsley, we are arresting you for absence without leave; being in possession of prohibited literature, and on suspicion of dissident activities contrary to Our Greater Good. Do you understand the charges?”

The man nodded sheepishly.

“We must caution you, sir. You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be recorded and given in evidence.”

Morrison peered into Kingsley's eyes and shook his head from side to side. “It's a sad day when one of our own goes native on us, Kingsley. A sad day. Be warned, Kingsley, we will press for the maximum permitted custodial sentence as a deterrent to others.”

He abruptly turned away. “Okay sergeant, take this man back to the nick and we'll let him stew in the cells until morning.”

Then a thought suddenly occurred to him. “And sergeant. Put out a bulletin for that bitch, Potter. We'll have her banged to rights, too. With any luck, in her case they'll throw away the ruddy key and she will not see her child again this side of eternity.”

As they left the meeting room, he turned back momentarily. “Our sincere apologies once more, ladies. Please go about your business.”

As he closed the door behind him, Special Investigator Morrison didn't see Gladys Bagshaw hop up and down on the spot and jubilantly punch the air. “That's spit in their eye!” she whooped for joy.

~~~O~~~

Kingsley was the least of Special Investigator Morrison's problems that evening. As they approached the vans, the first thing he noticed was that all the tyres had been slashed. And when he dashed forward to check if the child was still safely in custody, he found the front of the van empty.

Going round the back of the vehicle, he heard a thumping coming from inside, and when he wrenched the back doors open, he found two of his men laid out on the floor, bound hand and foot and gagged. Curse the woman! After doubly screwing him that evening, she and her precious child were long gone.

Well, they still had Kingsley, and he'd still be sent down, so the bitch hadn't scuppered all their plans. Unless – perish the thought – she'd already put out the word that Kingsley was really working undercover. If that were the case, then Kingsley was in for a rough stretch inside.

For a moment or two, Morrison did consider pulling the plug on the operation, letting Kingsley off the hook and reinstating him; but he quickly dismissed that idea. The Chief wanted results and what she wanted, she inevitably got; Kingsley was already in too deep; and too much had been invested in the operation to back out now. And if it all went tits up? Well, as some pre-Hive pragmatist once observed: “That's one less thing to worry about.”

10. Banged to rights

Jail for Rowan Kingsley was bad from the outset and only much later did it become a strangely bitter and yet acquired taste; and just as the first sexual experience he'd had with Holly had precipitated all manner of subtle changes in him, so too did his first fearful, acrid and nauseating taste of incarceration open his eyes and involuntarily precipitate further and deeper change. It was at that point that he decided that he wasn't going to simply lay down and play the role of the downtrodden dissident; now that he actually felt downtrodden, and his self-esteem had inevitably taken a hammering, he was going to really live the part one hundred percent and make it worth his while.

One thing that hit Rowan Kingsley forcibly was that, just as Holly had suggested, now that he couldn't hang onto an image of himself as a heroic crime- and dissidence-fighting crusader, he really was left wondering: Who the hell am I? And, of course, the corollary of this was that for the first time in his life Kingsley had come to realize that things like the uniform, the badge and the gun had been nothing more than props shoring up a derelict mind.

Rowan's time in jail was not merely as humiliating, degrading and hopeless as he'd been led to believe in the many officially sanctioned anti-dissident films that they'd rammed down his throat since early childhood, it was far worse – for this time round, he wasn't some jolly popcorn-guzzling observer or armchair hero, but in the thick of it as a thoroughly impassioned pawn in the game. In those films, the protagonist was always shown as a deceitful or deeply flawed character, not as a hapless victim of a brutal system, and never once did that character escape from jail or have his antagonists banged to rights. Instead, he would inevitably see the light; be shown to repent his sins; be reprocessed and sometimes lobotomized; rejoin civilized society, and live happily every after as a decent, hard working, Hive-abiding model citizen.

Yes, just like the propagandist movies depicted, he and his fellow prisoners arrived at the jail shackled together hand and foot, and it was not simply as bad as he'd seen in the movies but possibly worse because of the propaganda and because real life was now mimicking that fiction and actually magnifying it in effect and making it all the more grotesque.

There was a great joke that was forever doing the rounds in the jail and it was probably funny not because it had a humorous punchline but because it was so very true at a deep psychological level. Put anyone in that jail and soon enough they'd actually become a cruel, twisted, sadistic and heartless thug. And some of the prisoners were just as bad.

So yes, he had to strip off his clothes and stand in a cell whilst they hosed him down and bowled him over with a powerful jet of cold water; then tossed a great choking cloud of delousing powder all over him. Yes, they ground his personal possessions underfoot and burnt his old clothes in front of him. Yes, they tattooed a number on his arm and shaved every vestige of hair from his head, as they might have done to a novice in some grim, gothic monastery in the Dark Ages many centuries before the Hive came to power.

Yes, just like the movies, they issued him with a grimy and stained, ill-fitting, secondhand uniform and made him walk butt naked from the reception block to his cell, as hundreds of other inmates lined up against the wire to give him the hairy eyeball; heckled him; made the most lewd homosexual suggestions; and laid bets on which of his fellow freshers would be first to crack or which of them had the best looking arse. And yes, the catcalling went on for hour after hour through the night, and he spent most of that cold, lonely night wide awake with his thin pillow over his head to block out that dreadful sound.

And of course when he was released from his cell in the morning and he came face to face with these creeps, many of whom could have had him for breakfast or sucked him in and blown him out in bubbles, in spite of his own bulk, things became that much worse. The hazing went on and on remorselessly for a week, until – thank heavens – the latest batch of new prisoners arrived, and most of the attention was instead turned on them.

Most, but not all.

When the others became bored with the new inmates, they were again on the lookout for victims, and Rowan must have had “Kick me” tattooed on his forehead or backside or something. And the Hive Wardens turned a blind eye to this violence and depravity. You see, the whole system was designed to break them down or – failing that – to inevitably grind them down, as a necessary prelude to reconditioning in the event of their release. This, they euphemistically called rehabilitation. Rowan was grimly determined that he wouldn't let these events get to his heart and that he would survive intact against even these depressing odds.

There was one inmate in particular that Rowan was keen to avoid, and that was Harrison. Rowan had been late arriving at the canteen one morning and most of the seats had already been taken. So, blissfully unaware of what fate had in store for him, once he'd been served with the obligatory lumpy porridge, he'd blithely crossed the canteen and taken a vacant seat at one of the tables.

“Did I say you could sit there, Diss?” he'd heard a man snarl at him. Diss was what the Crims called the dissidents, and it wasn't a term of endearment. There was no love lost between the two factions. He looked up sharply, initially shocked that he'd made the stupid, schoolboy mistake of choosing a table reserved for the Crims. But what shocked him even more was to see that hulk of a man sitting at the head of the table, waving his fork menacingly in his spade-like hand in Rowan's direction. Instantly recognizing Harrison, his heart lurched and his head was swamped by a sudden wave of adrenaline. Muttering his humble apologies, Rowan nervously backed away and searched around for another free seat, hoping to heaven that Harrison hadn't recognized him. Fortunately, he caught sight of one of the other dissidents. The man had seen Rowan standing there like a prune and, coming to his rescue, the man motioned to a spare seat at his table. Rowan couldn't get there and take his seat too soon.

“You want to steer well clear of fat boy,” the scrawny, ginger-haired man warned him under his breath. “The other day, he stiffed Nielson. Now he's taken over as Top Dog on this block, and I can see that he's going to be big trouble.”

“Elder Archer,” the man introduced himself, offering his hand. “Elder sounds a bit formal, though, so my friends call me El.”

Rowan shook his hand. “Rowan Kingsley,” he returned. “Pleased to meet you, El.”

“So, what brings you here, Rowan?” the man wanted to know.

Rowan nervously scanned the table.

El smiled. “It's okay, we're all friends her. You can speak freely if you keep your voice down.”

Rowan shrugged his hands apologetically. “I was an Enforcer,” he began, hastily adding: “and I'm not proud of it. I went native a while back, then absent without leave and, to cut a long story short, they caught me, tried me and here I am.”

“Yes, I heard something about that,” one of the others nodded. “It made the national headlines.”

El sucked in his breath and peered into his eyes. “Rowan, it's a good thing that you are amongst friends of a forgiving nature here. If you value your life, then take my advice and keep that information under your hat. If the Hive Wardens find out, they'll tell the Crims. And when fat boy finds out, he and his sidekicks will have your guts for garters.”

Rowan nodded and hung his head. “Thanks for the word of warning, El. It's appreciated. Fortunately, my ex-boss took pity on me, pulled a few strings and had my record amended. As far as the authorities here are concerned, I'm just a regular dissident and the only thing the guards know is my number, D41313. But I do heed your warning, so thanks again.”

Having said that, Rowan was deeply worried. As his hair and eyebrows gradually grew back, it was surely only a matter of time before Harrison or one of the other Crims recognized him. There was only one thing lower in their book than a Diss, and that was an Enforcer who'd fallen from grace. Unless, of course, the Enforcer had been bent and in their pay. The Crims treated them as one of their own.

On his way out of the canteen, Rowan saw Harrison hovering in the doorway. Indeed, he was such a big guy that the others had to sidle by him to get past. None of them appeared brave enough to ask him to move, and none of the sidekicks who were with him possessed the basic social skills to politely suggest they move out of the way.

Just as he was passing, Rowan felt a spade like hand on his shoulder, and such was the grip, that he was stopped dead in his tracks. It was Harrison and Rowan staggered as a wave of adrenaline suddenly flooded his system. Up close, the man looked more muscular and menacing then ever; and even his neck, with its bulging blood vessels, looked as sturdy as a tree trunk.

Harrison was giving him a peculiar look and finally he spoke. “I know you from somewhere,” the man said.

Rowan shook his head and forced a smile. “I'm sorry, I can't place your face,” he replied.

“I never forget a face,” Harrison added, but the ape flattered himself, for it was patently obvious in this case that he had.

Fortunately, at this point one of the Hive Wardens came to the rescue, banging his truncheon on the top of a nearby table to attract their attention. “Alright, alright ladies. Don't stand there blocking the exit. Shift your asses and get to your work details.” This momentarily distracted Harrison and Rowan took the scant opportunity it afforded to make good his escape.

Rowan met El a few times in those early weeks and they soon became fast friends. El introduced him to the other dissidents and during their exercise and rest periods, he spent much of his time in their company. He felt a lot safer with other dissidents around him, though seldom safe enough to fully relax. Even when he was in his cell on a night, figuratively speaking he slept with one eye open.

One evening as Rowan was returning to his cell ready for lock in, El passed by and surreptitiously pushed something into Rowan's pocket. Once he was safely back in his cell, Rowan fished in his pocket and discovered that it was a small brown bottle. Unscrewing the cap he was pleasantly surprised to find that it wasn't noxious medicine in the bottle but some kind of alcoholic spirit, which was a rare luxury. El later confided that they collected the potato peelings from the bins outside the kitchens, fermented the peelings and then put the brew through a makeshift distillery, the location of which El did not disclose, even to him. Savouring each fiery mouthful, within minutes Rowan was feeling more than suitably squiffy and could finally switch off, at least for a few brief hours.

Things seldom went this well, however.

A week later, when Rowan was working in the laundry, one of the supervisors came up to him and asked him to go get a fresh batch of detergent. So, thinking nothing of the request, since it came from a member of the prison staff, Rowan left the laundry and headed for the adjacent stores.

“Hello,” he called, seeing nobody at the counter, and he pinged the service bell. Just then he heard the door close behind him and he turned. He was shocked to see two prisoners standing there, and it was clear from the fact that their sleeves were rolled up and their arms folded, that they meant business.

Just then, the stores clerk arrived and he nervously took in the scene.

“Beat it, Pop,” one of the prisoners requested, and he held the door open for the man as he hastily scurried away.

The two prisoners came forward now and grabbed Rowan by the arms, and a third stepped out of the shadows. It was Harrison, and Rowan knew then that the game was up.

“I told you that I never forget a face, Mister Enforcer. But perhaps I need to remind you of my own. Remember me? You're the guy who caught me in the balls with a disrupter. After the bank raid, when I crashed the getaway car into the wall, remember?”

Harrison came closer, until he was almost pressing his face up against Rowan's, and Rowan almost gagged at the stench of the man's fetid breath. Harrison was seething with rage and looked fit to bust a blood vessel. “Well, what I'm going to do is help you to remember, Fuss. In fact, you'll remember so intensely, that you will never again be able to forget.”

Rowan tried to shrug his shoulders, but the man's two sidekicks had tight hold of him by the arms. “There's no personal animosity, Harrison. Like you, I was just doing my job. We're both in the same game, but happen to be on opposite sides of the fence, that's all.”

That's as far as Rowan got. Without warning, the man lashed out, and then he hit Rowan again and again, using him as a punch bag, until finally Rowan lost consciousness and they let him slip to the stone floor.

When he was hospitalized for the first time with cracked ribs and internal bruising, that was bad enough. However, when he was hospitalized for a second time, having been forcibly sodomized by one of the ape's cronies – since fat boy wasn't willing to soil his own wedding tackle – this resolve was sorely tested. And unlike the movies, in real life there was no fairy Godmother watching over him to intervene and kiss him better and invoke poetic justice. As someone once quipped:

In real life crime,

some poems rhyme.

And some don't.

Still, he was in better shape than the pervert in the next bed. One of the boys had rammed a length of glass rod up his willy and then hit it with a hammer. However twisted it might at times appear, there really was honour to be found amongst thieves.

Rowan's one consolation whilst recovering in hospital was that Elder Archer had been assigned to help mop the floors and whenever he got the chance, the man popped into the ward to have a word with Rowan and did his best to cheer him up. The guy even thoughtfully brought fresh supplies of that wicked potato liquor.

El was a dreamer – possibly induced by the illicit homegrown weed that he regularly ate (since smoking was so fraught with danger) – and he kept saying that one day, when he got out of jail, he'd leave the city; beg, borrow or steal a boat and sail off to Arcadia where the Fuss couldn't touch him. A few of the other dissidents used to talk about Arcadia, but Rowan had yet to meet anyone who had ever been there and returned, or even knew of anyone else who had been there or returned, and he did think that it was most likely just some old romantic folk legend or myth to hang onto; just like their irrational, but comforting, belief in an afterlife in heaven.

But Rowan had bigger worries on his mind now. Harrison was going to out Rowan to the other inmates, too, so that they would make his life even more of a living nightmare; but one of his sidekicks suggested instead that Harrison use the threat of outing to get Rowan to run errands for them. And that threat was more frightening than the consequences Rowan would have to suffer if the Hive Wardens found out that he was smuggling.

So again Rowan's resolve was sorely tested. There was one way out, you see, other than to sit out one's stretch or – by one means or another – escape in a pine box. All you had to do was crack up and beg to see the Governor; grovel at his feet and admit to being a dissident; heartily repent your sins, and volunteer for elective brain surgery. Believe me, he'd considered stringing himself up or opting for surgery on many an occasion as he lay in bed in his cell brooding on a night; but fortunately his resolve to survive proved stronger than his desire to escape.

Rowan had Holly to thank for that, and losing her had dealt him a bitter blow. In the short time he'd spent with Holly, she'd taught him such a lot. Some of it had been explicit and yet this was perhaps just the tip of the proverbial iceberg, for much, much more that he'd learnt had been implicit and picked up through indirect means, such as through the actual experience of humour and the actual experience of the implicit sensuality that lay beyond the explicit act of sex.

And yet, of course, he also felt used and abused by Holly, having found out that as soon as she'd got what she really wanted – the return of her child – her selfish interest satisfied and in spite of her flowery words about the wonders of dissidence, she was off like a shot without so much as a backward glance. So yes, the Cult of the Individual did have a lot to answer for, and he'd been left angry and confused and especially divided about such issues.

But cast those thoughts aside and instead give the dissidents their due, at least for the sake of argument. He could see now why they should defiantly hang on to their old ways and to simple things like personal names. The Hive Wardens could sternly refer to him as Prisoner D41313, and they could spit in his face as they said it, but he could still defiantly hang on to being Rowan Kingsley, a unique human being merely temporarily divested of his human rights, knowing that these hard and brutal times would eventually pass. This was a part of him that they couldn't touch, and it was of vital importance to him that he held onto his belief that for all the Hive Wardens put him through, they couldn't touch him deep down inside. Yes, for the first time in his life, he actually had something to believe in that was truly worth believing in; and it all started with himself and would hopefully fan out to encompass others as he himself progressed.

Fortunately, there were some good people inside with him, who kept their heads down to avoid trouble, and pretty much kept themselves to themselves. There were some minor Crims amongst them, but by and large they were dissidents. They weren't pushovers though. Whilst they may have had pacifist tendencies when they had first entered the jail, they soon learned to toughen up in this neanderthal environment where one dog chewed the balls of the next dog.

One of the few redeeming graces about being inside with these people, other than the simple fact that they made good company and taught him so much, was that at least amongst themselves they could freely be themselves. They didn't have the added pressure of having to watch every word they spoke or gesture they made. In the outside world, the dissidents had to hide their true nature not only from the authorities, but all the more so from the vast majority of their fellow citizens. Indeed, in the outside world far more dissidents were informed on by their own peers, even by their own families, than were ever caught by Enforcement or Investigations, such was the sick power and efficacy of the social conditioning to which they were all constantly subjected.

Another of the redeeming graces of being inside was that there was an almost limitless time and opportunity to think. They spent their days working long and hard in the kitchens or the laundry or sowing hessian mail bags, but the work was so menial and mentally undemanding that you could carry it out on autopilot whilst your mind was elsewhere. Hah! Wouldn't it be good if you could do that in everyday life? Simply leave the donkey to its devices and slope off on vacation to bask in the sun by the sea?

And of course one of the absolute banes of being inside was there there was almost limitless time and opportunity to think. That was another piece of gallows humour that was forever doing the rounds in the jail.

This humour, too, was a valuable commodity in the jail. Some wags actually used it as a currency, like they did illicit tobacco. “If I didn't laugh, I'd cry” was one of the more popular sentiments expressed by his fellow dissidents from time to time. This indomitable humour, and the freedom they had to express it, was something else that the Hive Wardens couldn't steal away from them, no matter how often or how hard they tried. These dissidents really did know how to laugh in the face of danger and oppression.

When Rowan had first entered the jail, he'd begin to mark the days by making scratches in the whitewash on his cell wall, but if anything he found this act quite depressing, and in any case every so often the Hive Wardens would make them change cells. Since they had no access to news outside the jail, other than whatever juicy morsels the new inmates brought with them, he soon lost all track of the date.

And then one day, quite out of the blue, when he'd emerged from his cell, one of the Hive Wardens, a haggard-looking bastard by the name of Smith, came up to him and addressed him.

“Prisoner D41313, come with me. The Chief Warden wants to see you,” the man announced, matter-of-factly.

Rowan felt a surge of adrenaline pumping through his system and he tensed up. “Am I in trouble?” he wanted to know.

The Hive Warden made no reply. Instead, the man took him by the arm and marched him off down the corridor. It was a long walk from the cell block, though of course not as long as that last lonely walk for the condemned to their place of execution. They crossed the exercise yard; then went back inside and weaved their way through the labyrinthine passages, not speaking a word in all this time, until they finally reached administration and came to a stop outside the Chief Warden's office.

The Hive Warden looked Rowan up and down and fastened the top button on Rowan's overalls. Then, having straightened his own tie, he knocked loudly on the door and waited.

“Enter,” a voice called from inside and the guard opened the door and went in.

“Reporting with Prisoner D41313 as requested, Sir,” the Hive Warden announced, clicking his heels together and saluting.

“Very well, Smith. Show the prisoner in, then wait outside.”

“Yes Sir.” The guard turned smartly on his heels, grabbed hold of Rowan who was hovering in the doorway and dragged him inside to stand in front of the Chief Warden's desk.

The Chief Warden had a shiny bald head, a broken nose and cauliflower ears. He must have been quite a bruiser in his day, and even now in middle age he still appeared quite intimidating. The man stared directly and intensely at Rowan as he spoke, making him feel quite naked and uncomfortable. “The reason you've been brought here, Prisoner D41313, is that you are due for parole, at our discretion. What that means is that if we are satisfied that you no longer pose a threat to others, and if you have genuinely turned over a new leaf, then you may be offered early release, on condition that you continue to live as an honest, Hive-abiding citizen. Should you lapse into your former criminal ways, however, you will be returned here to complete your sentence in addition to any fresh sentence you may be facing. Such parole is not a right, it is a privilege and it is entirely at our discretion. Do you understand?”

Rowan nodded.

“Speak up, man.”

“Yes Sir, I understand.”

“That's better.”

The Chief Warden replaced his reading glasses, opened a brown manilla file that lay open on the desk before him and studied the contents. “Ah yes,” he nodded. “You're the Enforcer who fell in with the dissidents, eh Kingsley? A major scandal that made the headlines.”

That was the first time one of the wardens had called him by anything other than his number or by epithets like “Shit For Brains” since he'd first been locked up.

“Dreadful state of affairs. So Kingsley, have you learnt your lesson?”

Rowan's heart was racing and he solemnly nodded his head. “Yes, Sir.”

The Chief Warden removed his spectacles and sat there peering at Rowan and thoughtfully sucking on one of the plastic legs of the glasses.

“I must say, you don't sound very convincing, Kingsley.”

Of course, the man wanted to hear him say the right words.

“Oh, I've thoroughly learnt my lesson, Sir. I admit to my dissidence and repent the error of my ways.”

Even as he spoke those words, he realized that he'd been tricked into using the personal pronoun, “I”, and his face flushed with embarrassment. That was one of the oldest tricks in the book, though the worst of all was to be faced with the interrogation technique of Thirty Seconds. The interrogator would say something and you had to respond quickly, without once repeating yourself or using the personal pronoun. Very few dissidents could last the full thirty seconds, and a refusal to comply was taken as equal proof of dissidence.

“Sorry about that, Sir. Having spent so much time inside in the company of dissidents, it's hard for us not to fall into bad habits. But please be assured that we earnestly desire to put the past behind us and start a new life on the straight and narrow.”

The Chief Warden raised his eyebrows. “Well, after your release you'll go through an intensive twelve month course to recondition you, Kingsley, so we can excuse the odd lapse. Of course you do realize that regulations forbid you from rejoining the Service ...”

Rowan sighed and waved his arms in appeal. “But the Service is our life, Sir.”

“With your background, Kingsley, we are sure that you could find alternative employment working with recovering dissidents. There's a lot of call for that kind of work, or so we are told.”

“But it wouldn't be the same, Sir. We wish to play a more proactive role. Nothing would give us greater pleasure than to rise through the ranks and become an Investigator.”

The Chief Warden sucked in his breath. “Well, there is one way in which you might be allowed to rejoin the Service, Kingsley; though it will require sacrifice on your part.”

Rowan looked askance. “Which is, Sir?”

“If you were to volunteer for elective surgery.”

Rowan should have seen that sales pitch coming and he could feel the colour drain from his face.

“Yes, this is not something to enter into lightly, so when you've recovered from the shock, give it further thought. It might ease your mind, perhaps, if we were to tell you that in such a case, your entire criminal record would be erased and you'd be able to begin to rebuild your life again with a clean slate. In such cases, employers are legally obliged to not discriminate against you on such grounds.”

Rowan nodded thoughtfully, though secretly he was wondering if the Chief Warden would be paid a commission on the sale. “That option is quite tempting, Sir.”

The Chief Warden nodded. “Yes, we hoped it might, Kingsley. Well, give the matter some thought, and when you see the Counsellor at your reconditioning sessions, you might perhaps broach the subject?”

Rowan looked up sharply. “When we see the Counsellor, Sir? Does that mean that you're granting our parole?”

Again the Chief Warden smiled and, taking up a rubber stamp, he marked the file “Approved” in bright green ink.

Rowan was over the moon and he felt like doing a little celebratory jig on the floor. He reached over the desk and shook the Chief Warden's hand. “Oh thank you so much, Sir. You don't know how much this means to us.”

“Good, good,” the Chief Warden smiled and he called the guard back into the room. “Kingsley here is to be released on parole. Please take him along to stores and issue him with a fresh set of civilian clothes and an allowance to tide him over for the next two weeks.”

“Very good, Sir,” the Hive Warden saluted.

“And Kingsley. We do not want to see you here again, so keep your nose clean. All hail the Hive Mind.”

“Don't worry Sir, we'll be as good as gold. All hail,” grinned Rowan, skipping out of the room after the Hive Warden.

“Oh, we wouldn't be so cock-a-hoop, if we were you, D41313,” the guard told him gruffly when they were out of earshot of the office. “You might have fooled the Chief Warden, but you don't fool us for one minute. No matter what the Chief Warden and the other do-gooders and mollycoddlers say about turning over a new leaf and starting again with a clean slate – as an ex-Enforcer turned native, you are the lowest of the low in our eyes and you are a marked man. Scum, that's what you are – pure Scum. So it is our earnest hope that you'll find life outside every bit as daunting as it is in here, and that before long, you'll be begging to be lobotomized.”

Rowan was deeply shocked by what the man had to say, and by the dispassionate and clinical, yet frightfully direct, nature of his delivery. Again, he was stunned by the man's intense gaze and involuntarily averted his eyes.

“Nothing personal, D41313, but if you want our opinion, the only certain cure for the disease of Dissidence which afflicts the likes of you and is a bane in the lives of decent, Hive-abiding citizens, is a long drop on the end of a rope – be that enforced by the Powers That Be or self-inflicted. It doesn't matter to us which way, just so long as it's done.

“Rest assured, D41313, that we have a lot of loyal friends out there. And mark my words, by hook or by crook we'll get you sooner or later. Maybe tomorrow; maybe next month; or maybe in five years time. Who knows? We could strike anywhere and at any time, D41313; most likely when your guard's down and you're least expecting it to happen. Maybe when you're sitting on the John wanking yourself. But happen it undoubtedly will. You can depend on that.”

The Hive Warden tapped him lightly on the arm with his truncheon. “Oh, by the way, did I tell you about your old friend Harrison?”

“What about him?” Rowan snapped.

“His parole's coming up and the lads have put in a good word for him. Chances are, this time next week, he'll be released. There, we thought you'd be thrilled to hear the good news. We're sure he'd like to meet up with you again and renew your acquaintance. Oh, what fun: it'll be just like old times.”

Again the colour drained from Rowan's face, he lost the elated spring in his step and his whole body felt suddenly weak and heavy.

“Dead man walking,” called out another Hive Warden as he passed, and the man spat in his face. Bad news travels fast, as they say, and word had soon got around.

It would seem that fat boy Harrison had decided to out him after all, so Rowan's release could not have been more timely; and he did wonder whether he might revise his theory about fairy Godmothers.

11. The meaning of love

Rowan had just been let out through the heavy metal main gates and was looking around for the nearest bus stop when he heard a car creeping up behind him and he turned. The car came to a halt for a moment and the door swung open.

“Get in,” a man called, and he instantly recognized the voice. It was Special Investigator Morrison.

He hastily clambered in the black car and closed the door, and even before he'd managed to fasten his safety belt, craning his long neck this way and that to check that they were unobserved, Morrison had pulled away.

Anger welled up inside Rowan at this point. “Have you any idea what you've put us through?” he demanded to know.

“Yes,” the man nodded, with not the least bit of concern in his voice. “But it's over now and you know that it's all in a Good Cause.”

“The hell it is,” Rowan retorted. “I've – rather, we've – just been given the third degree by one of the Hive Wardens and there's a contract out on our life.” And he went on to tell Morrison the grim details.

“Leave that to us,” the man sought to assure him, again without a mere ripple of concern or consolation. “We have friends in high places, too, and we can keep you under close surveillance. And in any case, this will only add further credence to your story.”

“You mean you still want to go ahead with the plan?” he queried, though he already knew the answer to that.

“Of course we do, Kingsley. We have invested too many resources in the undercover mission to back out now.”

Rowan was livid. “You've invested resources, Mister Special Investigator? Don't make me laugh. Let me remind you that I'm the one who's been given the shitty end of the stick here, not you.”

Special Investigator Morrison turned and peered into his eyes for a moment before redirecting his attention to the traffic. “You haven't really gone native on us, have you, Kingsley? That's one worry we had when initially planning the mission.”

Rowan bit his lip. If that was Thirty Seconds, then he'd really blown in.

He shook his head briskly. “No, no. It's just that we've been banged up with the blessèd dissidents for so long, some of their mannerisms have rubbed off, that's all.”

“Well, you'll be going through twelve months' reconditioning anyhow, Kingsley, so that should sort out any wrinkles.”

Rowan sighed. “Have you any idea of the extent to which this messes with a person's mind, living a double life, Mister Special Investigator? For the sake of the Greater Good, it would be better if we skipped the reconditioning. While we've been inside, we've found out a lot about how the dissidents work and what makes them tick, and if we're to successfully infiltrate their movement, we have to be utterly convincing; and I use the word 'utter' advisedly. Now, we've got this off to a tee, and reconditioning is only going to throw another spanner in the works.”

The Special Investigator shrugged. “Okay, Morrison: this is virgin territory for us and you're the expert here. We'll take your word for it that you know how best to handle this, and we'll abide by your decision.”

Rowan sank down in his seat and tried to relax. “Thank you,” he replied at length. “Anyhow, where are we going?”

Morrison waited for the traffic lights to turn green before replying. “We thought it best to take you back to the apartment you shared with the woman – what's her name? – Potter.”

“I see.”

“And don't worry,” the Special Investigator went on. “We hasten to add that there's no official record linking you to the apartment and that nobody else knows the address.”

“Thanks again, Sir. That's good to know.”

Then he asked: “Did you ever locate Potter, Sir?”

The Special Investigator turned down a road to the left, squeezing past a badly parked car, then shook his head. “No, blast it. The woman's long gone and we haven't even heard a sniff of intelligence about her whereabouts. She appears to have vanished off the map. We had suggested that the woman be tagged with a chip implant so that we could track her movements, but by the time the Powers That Be had gone through their bureaucratic machinations and finally approved the procedure – since at that point she was simply assisting us with our inquiries and hadn't actually been charged with any criminal offence – the woman had already fled.”

Well, that was bad news for the Hive, but no doubt good news for Holly and her child, Jonathan. He'd been angry at her for leaving him so abruptly, of course, but his feelings toward her had again mellowed over time. Holly had been a great help to him and, for that matter, to the Service; and it would be wrong to wish harm to befall her because of some petty personal animosity. Certainly, the last thing Rowan would wish was that she should have to suffer the indignities and horrors of incarceration like he had. That was something that they should reserve for the worst dregs of society, not for the unfortunate.

Special Investigator Morrison pulled up near the apartment block and let Rowan out, then drove off immediately, telling Rowan that he'd be in touch.

At the jail, they'd taken all Rowan's personal possessions, including his wristwatch and keys. The watch had been crushed underfoot and the keys had not been returned, but fortunately he and Holly had left a spare set of keys with the janitor who had a small apartment in the basement, so it was a simple enough matter to retrieve the spare keys from him, promising to return the keys once he'd had a fresh set cut.

The first thing that Rowan noticed when he entered the apartment was how cold it was and how musty it smelt. Being unoccupied for such a long period of time, the credit had long since run out on the electricity meter and consequently the central heating had been cut off.

So the first thing to do was take a walk to the nearest convenience store, top up the credit on the meter card and buy in a few essentials like milk and bread. Again, his personal credit card had been taken from him at the jail and had not been returned, which would take some sorting out at the bank, but at least they'd issued him with an allowance on a temporary card to tide him over. The temporary card didn't carry quite the same stigma as food coupons for the poor, of course; but, nevertheless, using it would be about as telling as showing the shop assistant the navy blue number tattooed on his arm. Oh well, he'd have to grin and bear it and simply count his lucky stars that he'd actually survived the accursed regime with his wits and his asshole more or less still intact.

The second thing that Rowan noticed when he returned from the shop and went to swipe the top up card through the electricity meter was that someone had been through the apartment in their absence. They appeared to have done a thorough job, though fortunately they hadn't made a mess. Presumably Morrison had paid a call, looking for clues, after Holly absconded.

What really hit Rowan, however, as he sat down on the settee to drink the first real coffee he'd tasted in months, albeit instant coffee granules, was how quiet and empty it felt in the apartment without Holly there. Whilst he'd been inside, Rowan had cherished the evenings when he could spent private time on his own in his cell, though of course when it was time for the lock in and lights out, he had the long, lonely nights to face. He'd have given anything to have been tucked up in bed with Holly instead.

The well-thumbed copy of The Bumper Book of Classic Jokes that Holly had bought him was still on the occasional table where he'd left it all those months ago. The book had caused him great mirth when he'd begun to read it, though now the mere sight of it just added to his sadness. It was then that Rowan noticed something white sticking out from the pages and he picked up the book and opened it to find out. It was a small white envelope and, discarding the book, leaving it open and face down so that he didn't lose his place, he opened the unsealed envelope to find a short note inside.

He read the note and then raised it to his lips and kissed it, and even after all these months he could still detect Holly's scent on the paper. If she went out before he'd got out of bed, she'd always leave him a note and spray her scent on the paper to remind him of her. She'd said that this was “romantic”, and it was these little, kind gestures that he'd perhaps miss as much as anything, other than Holly herself.

“My dearest Rowan,” the note read. “Luckily for you, by the time you read this letter you'll have served your time inside and can once again begin to rebuild your life; and alas, I'll be long gone. I'm afraid that for obvious reasons I can leave no forwarding address.

“Please forgive me for abandoning you in your hour of need, sweetheart, but Jonathan's needs were greater than yours. And besides that, in all conscience I could not betray my own kind. So I really had no option but to abscond.

“I hope you can understand this and find it in your heart to forgive me.”

And the note was signed “With love and best wishes, Holly xxx.

She'd even added a thoughtful postscript:

“P.S. Those are kisses and the spots on the paper are my tears.

“P.P.S. I know how much we enjoyed reading jokes to one-another to while away the evenings, so I'll leave you the bumper book as a keepsake. I think you'll find its contents quite enlightening.”

Now those awful feelings of abandonment and desolation had once again returned and Rowan was suddenly overcome with emotion. His hand shaking, he placed the letter down on the occasional table by the settee, clutched his head in his hands and wept and wept, until at length he'd drained the pond and he could cry no more.

Rowan was feeling quite hungry by this time, but he couldn't face having to cook a meal and so he quickly made himself a slice of jam and bread, washed it down with the remnants of his coffee and took himself to bed, hoping that he might be in slightly better spirits in the morning when he woke.

When morning came, however, and Rowan suddenly remembered that he was still alone, with only the pillow to clutch for comfort and to play pretend, he heaved a deep sigh and once again he felt utterly dejected and despondent. It was at this point that Rowan realized that he really didn't give a damn about his mission and that life in general felt so empty and devoid of meaning and purpose without Holly around. He truly understood now what it was to have a sweetheart, and he wondered if this was what Holly had meant when she spoke of love? What she hadn't told him was that as well as bringing wondrous joy, it could also be a source of terrible sorrow.

And yet, for all that, perhaps Holly had been right when she'd once said to him that “it is better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all”?

12. The meet

Later that week, Rowan received an unexpected call on his new phone. His old phone had been taken from him at the jail, of course, but the phone company had arranged for him to retain his old number.

There were only a handful of people who knew that number, all of whom were in the Service, and he fully expected that it would be Special Investigator Morrison, but he was quite surprised when he answered the phone to find that it was Barnes, one of his and Jenkins' old buddies.

“Hello there, Kingsley,” the man lilted. “Listen, your old partner Jenkins found out that you'd been released and we thought that perhaps we might meet up some time, just to let you know how pleased we are that you've served your time and to show that there are no hard feelings. What do you say, good buddy?”

Well that was unexpected and very welcome news.

“Hey, it's good to hear from you, Barnes, and please pass on our best wishes to Jenkins. Long time no see, indeed. Hell yes, it would be great for us to meet up. What did you have in mind?”

“Oh, we're so glad. How's about we all meet up at your place after we clock off on the afternoon shift? Maybe we could call round at six o'clock, have a bit of a chat, then head off into the city for a meal somewhere?”

Rowan suddenly had a thought and it was a second or two before he answered. “Oh, you know we'd love to have round, but to be honest the place is a pigsty – you know what unattached guys are like. Tell you what, let's all meet up at the Clock Café near Hinderwell Square, and later we can move on from there. We know a great restaurant not far from there.”

Barnes seemed a little hesitant at the other end. “Oh, alright then. The Clock Café it is. We'll be there at six on the dot.”

“Thanks, Barnes. It's good of you to think of us. We look forward to seeing you both then. Take care, buddy.”

“Same to you, Kingsley,” the man signed off, and the call disconnected.

At five o'clock that afternoon, Rowan had a quick shower to freshen up and changed into his best jacket and trousers. Then he poked around under the bed for something he'd taped to the underside of the brown plastic frame. It was his Service issue disrupter which Morrison had allowed him to keep whilst working undercover. He checked the charge and was surprised to find that it was still at eighty percent, but just to be on the safe side, he went into the lounge and plugged it into the universal charger. If he set the charge rate at maximum, the thing would be fully topped up by the time he had to leave.

Rowan removed the two fat volumes from the bookcase, flipped the catch and pulled the bookcase open. Going into one of the cupboards, he found the bottle of wine there where they'd left it and still half full. Abandoning protocol, he pulled the cork and took a couple of large swigs from the neck of the bottle before replacing the cork and closing up the bookcase. This was the first time he'd ventured far since his release and his period of incarceration had left him feeling quite edgy, verging on paranoid, in public; so he could do with a little bottled courage to buck him up.

Checking his new watch, Rowan found that due to his anxiety to be ready on time, he still had a good twenty minutes to kill. He did think of turning on the television and idly flipping through the channels, but in view of Holly's warnings he decided instead that he might as well read, so he picked up the joke book to take up where he'd left off and read a few pages before setting off into the city. If he arrived five minutes late, then he wouldn't have to face the anxiety of sitting alone in a public place like a lemon waiting for the others to arrive.

When he picked the book up and removed the letter marking his place, he flipped back a couple of pages to remind himself what he'd been reading, but Holly must have just slipped the letter in the book at random, because for the life of him he couldn't remember reading that far into the book.

Certainly he hadn't read the page that had been marked. It was full of short jokes about knitting that he really didn't get, let alone find funny, like “What do you get if you cross a sheep with a kangaroo?” He had to look up the answer in the back of the book, and when he read “A woolly jumper”, he was still none the wiser, and of course dear Holly wasn't around to advise him or simply set him off with her own infectious laughter.

And there was another.

A police officer on a motorbike saw a car being driven erratically and he was shocked to see that the blond woman at the wheel was busily knitting. Drawing alongside, he called out “Pull over!”

“No, it's a scarf,” she nonchalantly replied.

It occurred to Rowan then that some jokes were actually funny in a perverse kind of way simply because they were so corny.

In the end, still feeling anxious about meeting up with the guys from work and unable to find the last joke he remembered reading, he decided to leave the book and have a look later, and instead he went back to the secret cupboard to have a third swig from the bottle. His most pressing need was to calm himself down and relax, so he spent a few minutes sitting cross-legged on the settee practising a slow, deep breathing exercise that Holly had once recommended, and that seemed to do the trick.

Rowan glanced at his watch again and decided that it was time to lock up and head into the city. If it looked like he was going to be early, he'd simply slacken his pace; and it he was going to be late, he'd increase his stride.

When he arrived at the Clock Café, almost in time with the striking of the bell in the tower, he found Barnes already there waiting for him at a table outside.

“Good to see you, Barnes,” he smiled, reaching forward to shake the man's hand. “Jenkins gone to point Percy at porcelain?”

Barnes rose to his feet. “Likewise, Kingsley. Sorry, no, unfortunately something came up and Jenkins couldn't make it. He sends his profuse apologies.”

Just then, Rowan heard a distinct humming sound behind him and he recognized it in an instant as a disrupter being primed, and he also caught sight of Barnes reaching inside his jacket. He dived at Barnes, bowling him over. The man had been reaching for his own gun and it spun through the air and clattered to the ground several feet away.

A moment later, a blast from a disrupter hit the flag stones just inches from where Rowan lay, erupting in a shower of sparks. By now, he had his hand on his own gun and he turned and released the safety catch as he did so, and leapt to his feet. Seconds later, he hit his assailant full in the chest and the man fell forward on the ground, writhing in agony.

Barnes had him by the foot now and with a deft pull, he yanked Rowan off his feet and he fell backwards onto the hard flag stones, banging the back of his head and momentarily stunning him. Barnes took that brief opportunity to dash over to retrieve his gun, but with his vision still almost obscured by shooting stars, Rowan fired again, hitting Barnes in the back of the shoulder. Since the man was still scrabbling for his gun, Rowan let off two further shots, hitting Barnes squarely in the back and on the back of the head, then he turned and fired another shot into the other assailant, full in his face.

There was a third man there, too, and Rowan instantly recognized him as Harrison's sodomite sidekick – which came as an additional and almighty shock – but the wretch had soon turned tail and was well out of range by now.

“Barnes, you fucking idiot!” he yelled, turning back to face the man. “I'm working undercover!” But it was doubtful that Barnes could still hear him. It looked like both men were out for the count.

Snatching up the two stray disrupters, he shoved them in his pocket and ran away from the Clock Café. With CCTV all over the high streets, his only hope was to lose any pursuit in the warren of side streets and alleyways.

If they'd finally caught up with him, just as the Hive Warden had promised, then there was no way that Rowan could go back to the apartment now. These people weren't fools and being in the Service it would be a trivial task for them to locate his phone, and hence the flat, using GPS. Just to be on the safe side, he made a point of switching his phone off.

A piece of the jigsaw had just clicked into place. Rowan had finally got the jokes that Holly had left him, or rather a hint of what she really meant. The jokes on that page were all about knitting, and he remembered the old lady at the knitting circle now. Holly had never revealed to him where the book shop was where she'd got hold of the bumper book and The Joy of Sex, but she had of course told him about the old lady who ran the place; about the knitted woollen tea cosy that she wore for a hat; and about her sitting there at her desk knitting. And Rowan would bet his last credit that this was the same lady whom he'd met at the supposed knitting circle at the library.

But that would have to wait. Right now he had to get away and hide up, probably sleeping rough in one of the alleys further across town. Thankfully, with Barnes working freelance on this contract, Rowan wouldn't have to face a whole swarm of Enforcers descending on the city to hunt him down.

Rowan had thought ahead and had a warm padded jacket on top of his suit, and he did find a large cardboard box to sleep in that night; but come morning, he was chilled to the bone, as stiff as a board, thoroughly damp from the early morning dew and, what's worse, he felt quite wretched and unkempt. It would be just his luck to be picked up on a charge of vagrancy by some passing patrol with nothing better to do with their time.

The first thing Rowan did was walk off the stiffness and then he found a quiet café off the beaten track. Not knowing where he'd get his next meal, he ate as much breakfast as he could stuff inside him. Rather than use his new personal credit card, he used the credit that remained on the temporary card he'd been issued, since that was anonymous and would be virtually impossible to trace.

Breakfast out of the way, he found himself an internet café and booked half an hour on one of their stock computers. Again, this was far safer than using his own phone. What he was hunting for were the addresses of any secondhand book shops within easy reach of the apartment. There were quite a few, and so he paid for a printout and, taking the list, he set out to methodically check each one. Holly hated the city's numerical grid layout, but if ever it proved useful, it did that day. It saved a whole heap of aimlessly wandering to and fro.

It took him a good hour and a half, but finally Rowan managed to track down the right bookshop. It was fifth on his list of seven and it was indeed the shop nearest the apartment. As he clambered up the steep bare wooden steps and turned the corner, he recognized the old lady instantly. She was wearing a brightly coloured woollen hat on her head and there was no mistaking her alert, hazel eyes; but if she recognized him, she showed no sign.

“Hello there, young man,” the old lady smiled. “Please feel free to browse. There's no obligation.”

Rowan looked around to make sure he couldn't be overheard, then decided to dive in the deep end. “Actually, Ma'am, I'm not here to buy a book today, I'm looking for a friend of mine. I believe she's one of your customers: her name is Holly Potter and she's of a petite build, with long black hair and green eyes. She bought The Bumper Book of Classic Jokes and The Joy of Sex.”

“My word, thanks be to the Hive, we don't stock such lurid titles, young man,” the lady replied. “And we're sorry, but we don't know anyone of that name, nor anyone matching that description. Tell us, young man: do you work in Enforcement?”

The old lady was so alert and on the ball, Rowan had to smile. “I used to be,” he told her and he removed his jacket, pushed up his shirt sleeve and showed her the telltale blue prison tattoo on his lower arm. “And to tell the truth, I went native and I'm now on the run. There's a contract out on my life.”

“Oh, my word,” the lady exclaimed. She motioned toward the teapot and immediately dropped the Hive Talk. “I think this calls for a cup of tea, young man. It's freshly brewed, if you'd like one.”

Rowan shrugged. “Sure, why not.”

When the lady had poured the tea, she offered him a biscuit. “Now, tell me all about it,” the lady suggested. “I can't promise that I can help, but you know, they do say that a problem shared is a problem halved.”

At that point, another customer entered the shop to have a look round, and they changed the subject and began to Hive Talk; but fortunately the lady soon left and they were able to resume their conversation.

At length, the old lady let out a deep sigh. “My word, you have been in the wars, young man.”

The lady paused for a few moments and she spent some time nodding her head from side to side, as if weighing up different options.

“I know that it's a huge imposition, Gladys, and I recognize the very real risks that you are facing,” he said at length, “but I don't know any dissidents in this city and I seriously need their help.”

Again the old lady hesitated before she spoke. “Very well, Rowan.”

He looked up sharply. “I don't believe that I told you my name.”

“Oh, I'm certain that you must have, young man. But no matter. Now, I can't help you personally, you understand.”

Rowan nodded. “Of course.”

“However, there's a chip shop just down the road from here. Now, I can't promise anything, young man, but I can offer you a possibility.”

“Sure,” he acknowledged.

“If you were to go there at one o'clock this afternoon, buy yourself fish and chips and sit outside on the bench eating them, you might meet someone who can help you out.”

Rowan broke into a radiant smile and he stood up, reached across the desk and planted a kiss on the old lady's soft, wrinkled cheek before making a move to leave the shop. “Thank you so much, Gladys, you don't know how much this means to me. You really are a treasure.”

“Oh, I think I do, Rowan, and you're welcome. That's what friends are for,” the old lady smiled back as he turned toward the stairs.

“And I can also tell when someone's in love,” Gladys added.

He stopped in his tracks and turned back to face her.

“Really? Does it show?”

“Oh yes, naturally,” she nodded. “Now take care and may heaven help you.”

Of course, this was a benevolent warning to one's own dissident kind as much as an expression of good wishes.

He nodded. “Oh, don't worry, Gladys: I most certainly will. Thank you once again. And I'm sure that if there really is a heaven, they'll be sure to save a special place for you.”

13. The chippie

After sitting around in a seedy café for hours idly twiddling his thumbs and trying to stretch out each drink without looking like he was just hogging a table, Rowan arrived back and wandered along to the chip shop at just after ten to one that day. He figured if someone was going to meet him there, they wouldn't want to hang about while he finished eating, and he was feeling too hungry to forego that meal.

Every time someone approached the chippie, Rowan's heart skipped a beat and he had to practise his breathing exercises to calm himself down and relax; but without exception they turned out to be regular customers coming to buy their lunch.

One o'clock came and one o'clock went and still there was no sign of the dissidents. And then, as he sauntered over to the rubbish bin to deposit the greasy remnants of his fish and chips, and when he was least expecting it, a blue car came speeding down the lane toward him. Whoever was driving the car was either in a great hurry or else they'd accidentally jammed the accelerator on the floor.

Rowan immediately tensed up, and he slipped his hand inside his jacket pocket to flip off the safety catch on his disrupter.

The car came to a screeching halt amidst a shower of loose gravel not far from the chip shop and two men in black balaclavas leapt out and ran toward him. He had his disrupter drawn by now and was desperately trying to weigh up whether these masked men were friend or foe.

The men stopped dead in their tracks and one put his hand up. “Rowan Kingsley?” he panted.

“That's me,” he nodded, cautiously lowering his weapon.

“Get in! And be quick about it,” the man replied, and he and his mate were already running toward the car. Rowan raced after them, flipping the safety catch back on and pocketing the gun.

Even before he was fully in the car, the driver was off and Rowan only just managed to snatch hold of the door and close it before they hit a nearby lamp post. The driver appeared agitated and he kept looking in the rear view mirror – and sure enough, when Rowan turned and peered out through the rear window, he caught sight of the flashing lights of a patrol car in hot pursuit.

At best, Rowan expected a bumpy ride, and at worst he was terrified that he'd be thrown forward and shatter his skull on the driver's head in front with the force of a two ton elephant, so he hastily buckled himself in.

Then one of the men beside him reached across and pulled a black mask over his head. The eye holes must have been round the back, and the material was dense and closely woven, because now he couldn't see a damn thing.

All he could tell, by the way he was being jostled from side to side was that they were either zigzagging through traffic or through the back streets; and judging by the way he was being thrown forward in one instant and pressed back against the seat in the next, and by the screech of rubber and the revving of the engine, the driver was really giving it his all.

Every now and again, over the sound of the supercharged engine, Rowan thought he could hear a car siren, so the chase must still be on. Being an ex-Enforcer himself, he really couldn't relax and let the driver get on with it, and he couldn't stand not being able to see what the hell was going on and brace for each potential impact. Holly had mentioned on more than one occasion that he had this need to always be in control, and that this was not a good thing; but he found it so difficult to loosen up and place his utmost trust in others.

Finally the car slowed and came to an abrupt stop, though the engine was still running, and he lurched forward in his seat. He heard the passenger door open and one of the men got out and dashed across the road; then there was the sound of rusty hinges like a gate being swung open. The car crept forward a few yards and judging by the way it went dark inside the car, they must have gone under cover. Then he heard the grating of dry hinges again, and at length the driver turned off the engine and breathed an audible sigh of relief. Outside, he could hear the roar of an engine and a siren and by the way both the tone and the volume of the siren rose and then fell, he could tell that the patrol car had caught them up and thankfully gone flying on by. The fact that the driver had sighed before this event must mean that they were already somewhere safe.

The guy beside him in the passenger seat had got out now, then the door nearest him opened and someone had him by the arm and half helped out and half dragged him from the car and marched him off. Judging by the echo of their footsteps on stone or concrete and the fact that the light was so dim, they must have been in some kind of small ground floor garage. A door opened ahead of them and he was led down a passage.

“You're coming to some steps,” his guide thoughtfully informed him and he gingerly felt his way until he'd got the measure of the steps, and they climbed to the top. Of course, not realizing that he'd already taken the last step, Rowan reached up for the next, found fresh air under his foot and ended up falling to the floor on his hands and knees, which raised a roar of laughter from his guide. Fortunately, Rowan landed on a patch of soft carpet. The man took hold of him again by the arm and helped him to his feet, and they walked along another passage and finally turned off into a room. He could hear someone dragging a chair across the floor and he was unceremoniously pushed down into the hardback chair. At this point someone turned on an overhead lamp and his vision, though obscured, became a little lighter. Then one of the men came forward and abruptly yanked off Rowan's mask, and until his eyes again became accustomed to the change in light, he was left blinking in the glare of the bright lamps. As for the three men who'd brought him to this place, they made no attempt to remove their own masks, which probably meant that as yet they didn't trust him.

One of the men came forward now and, frisking Rowan, he relieved him of his gun and also his phone. The guy checked the phone and was about to pocket it, when one of the others spoke up.

“Better take out the SIM card,” he advised.

“Why?” asked the first man. “The thing's switched off.”

“Not fully; it'll still be on standby,” insisted a second. “Every now and again, if the battery is charged, the phone will sync with the nearest base station, even if it's switched off. And if it does that, then the Fuss can trace the phone. Just take my word for it and remove the SIM card.”

“Okay, you're the boss.”

Well, thought Rowan, you learn something new each day. He'd foolishly assumed that with the phone switched off, he'd be safe.

“Do you think we're still safe here, then?” the first guy asked.

There was a pause before the second guy answered. “Chances are, the thing won't have synced yet and we'll just have to take a chance on it. Of course, another option would be to take a ride across the city, turn the phone on and dump it in a public litter bin. Did I hear you volunteering?”

“Oh no, no way,” the first guy replied. “I've had more than enough excitement for one day, thank you very much; so I'm not off out there again if I can help it.”

The first guy went back to finish thoroughly frisking Rowan and had him stand up while he probed and patted him down. “Okay, he's clean,” he announced at length.

At this point the second guy came forward and took hold of Rowan by the wrist, twisting his hand round and moving him into the light to get a better look.

“What's that?” the guy wanted to know, pointing to Rowan's wrist.

“Oh that? Just a couple of stitches. When I was inside, the Top Dog, a Crim by the name of Harrison took a shine to me. He and his sidekicks beat the shit out of me and put me in hospital.”

“Do you remember them cutting you?” the second guy wanted to know.

Rowan shrugged. “Well, I guess so. I was pretty much out of it and when I came to, the medics had patched me up.”

The second man turned to the first. “Go get the gear,” he requested urgently.

“I'm sure it's nothing. Just a scratch,” Rowan shrugged.

The first guy returned with some kind of handheld meter and as soon as he turned it on and Rowan heard the low buzzing, he realized that it was a sweeper. He stood there with his arms held out beside him while the guy systematically swept the device over his legs, torso and his arms. Finally he came to Rowan's right wrist, and as he drew the meter closer, the low buzz of the sweeper became a high pitched whistle.

“Okay, you'd better sit down, mate,” the second guy replied. He turned to the first guy. “Go get the first aid kit from the kitchen and a towel and razor from the bathroom. Right, roll up your sleeve, mate.”

Soon enough, the first guy returned and the second guy folded up the towel, placed it on Rowan's knee and carefully positioned Rowan's arm on top of it.

“Sorry mate, but this is going to sting a bit. Still, you're a big boy now. Get a couple of butterfly clips ready, would you? Oh, and I need a pair of tweezers.”

Within moments, the guy had reopened the stitches and was fishing around inside with the tweezers while Rowan clenched his other fist and gritted his teeth. Then the man stood up. “Okay, stem the bleeding; then use a couple of butterfly clips to close up the wound; and when that's done, wrap an elasticated bandage around the wrist.”

He came forward and showed Rowan what he had caught in his tweezers. It looked like a little black spider with a number of long, flexible silver legs.

“What the hell's that?” Rowan wanted to know.

The man went over to a hearth, placed the thing on the stone tiles and crushed it under foot. There was a faint popping sound and Rowan saw a few wisps of smoke rising into the air as the guy removed his foot.

“While you were in the nick, they must have tagged you, mate. It's a chip implant and it allows the Fuss to track your every movement. It also binds to the nearest nerves so, if needs be, they can even remotely immobilize you.”

Rowan had heard of such a thing, but it wasn't familiar with the technology.

“Well, that casts the deciding vote, then folks,” the second guy announced. “We can't stay here tonight as we'd planned. We're going to have to make a run for it, and hope to high heaven that the Fuss aren't still prowling the city looking for us.”

The second guy thought for a moment and looked at his wristwatch. “Collect the necessaries and take them down to the garage. We'll take the white van. You lot can hunker down in the back and I'll drive. Let's hope and pray that the plates really are clean and that they don't flash up as stolen on any Fuss computer screens. And we need to make doubly sure that the GPS is disconnected in the cab. That also sends out a signal that can be traced, purportedly for insurance purposes to check if you were speeding at the time of an accident, though of course we all know the real intention.

“Come on, chop chop! We leave in ten minutes, whether you're ready or not.”

Moments later, the third guy came dashing back into the room. “Just saw a paddy wagon creeping up the lane,” he panted.

“Okay, okay,” the second guy replied, raising his hands. “Now everybody stay calm. We knew this might happen, so just treat it as another dress rehearsal. We've been through this enough times. Just grab your personal bags and head for the escape ladder at the back. We'll go up and over the flat roofs. I'll go through the house and make sure that all the internal doors are locked. That should hold them up for long enough.”

“If you ask me, this fellah isn't to be trusted,” the first guy nodded in Rowan's direction, a scowl on his face. “Since his name was first mentioned, the Fuss have been dogging our every step. Either that or he's jinxed us.”

Just as the first guy was bending down to pick up his bag from the floor, Rowan caught sight of a strip of adhesive bandage on his chest.

“Cut yourself shaving?” Rowan asked, coming forward.

“Huh?” the guy grunted.

As he raised his head to look at Rowan, Rowan lashed out with his foot and caught him under his chin with such force that he was thrown backwards to land on the floor, out like a light.

“Hey, what the fuck?” cried the third guy, and he went to grapple Rowan.

Rowan held his hands up and made no move to resist. “Unbutton his shirt and have a look at his chest,” he said, nodding in the first man's direction.

The third guy looked to the second for advice.

“Do it,” he nodded.

The third guy tore at the man's shirt and Rowan breathed a sigh of relief. “Am I right, or am I right?” he asked.

There was a wire taped to the man's chest, and on one end of it there was a radio microphone.

The second guy came forward, ripped the device from the man's chest, took it across to the hearth and stamped it under foot while Rowan fished in the man's pockets to retrieve his disrupter and his phone.

“How much does he know?” Rowan asked urgently.

The second man shrugged. “Not much. He's only just joined our cell.” Then he thought again. “But that's still too much.”

Rowan nodded and he took the safety catch off his disrupter and set the charge to lethal. He fired two quick blasts into the man's chest and a third full in the face, then he turned back to the second man.

“Thanks,” the second guy acknowledged. He picked up the man's bag and hooked it over his shoulder. “Okay mate, I think it's time we got out of here.”

They left the house through the emergency door, clambered up the fire escape and, keeping low, they ran the whole length of the block, descending into an alleyway at the far end by means of another escape ladder. The second guy seemed to know the area like the back of his hand and he led them on a magical mystery tour through the alleyways and back streets until Rowan was thoroughly lost as, hopefully, would any Fuss who might have attempted to follow them. Every now and again, the second guy would stop and have them lift their feet so he could spray their shoes. It was some kind of repellent they used, just in case the Fuss brought in tracker dogs. Apparently it really got up their hypersensitive noses. Rowan could see that this guy was a thoroughly seasoned veteran.

Finally they came to a dilapidated gate at the back of a house and the second guy reached up to unfasten a catch and let them in before refastening the lock and leading them through a small, rubbish-strewn yard. All the stray cats in the neighbourhood must have been foraging through the black plastic rubbish bags.

There was a light on in a nearby room, but there were thick translucent curtains up at the window so they couldn't see in.

The second man unslung his bags and gave a series of quick bursts on the doorbell. Within moments, a face appeared in the window and shortly afterwards Rowan could hear the drawing of bolts and the door opened to let them in.

“Hello there, Will,” a female voice lilted and a woman appeared from behind the door. She reached up, flung her arms around the guy and gave him a peck on the cheek. “What are you doing here?”

As the petite, raven haired woman appeared and Rowan saw her, his heart leapt, for he recognized Holly an an instant. She looked every bit as beautiful as he'd pictured her in his mind and even more ravishing. When he saw the intimacy with which she greeted the second guy, however, he wasn't simply crestfallen, he was utterly devastated. But then, what else could he expect? It wasn't as if he and Holly had been a steady item before he was sent down, and he couldn't really have expected her to wait that long for him or, for that matter, to wait for him at all.

“It's a long story, Holly, and I'll fill you in with the details later,” Will told her. “For now, suffice it to say that we were rumbled and we're in need of a new safe house.”

“Not to worry,” Holly smiled. “You're here now and you're safe and that's all that really matters. Anyhow, let's not stand on the doorstep. Come in and make yourselves at home.”

“Hi John,” she smiled as the third guy stepped inside. And then she saw Rowan behind the man and her jaw dropped.

“Oh heavens above!” she whooped. “Rowan! Rowan Kingsley, I can't believe it's you. How on earth did you manage to find me? Oh heavens. This is like all my birthdays rolled into one!”

Holly tugged Rowan inside and began to shower him with kisses, but he pulled away. “Hey, steady on Holly,” he said in hushed tones. “Your friend Will is going to get the wrong idea.”

Holly appeared puzzled. “What do you mean, get the wrong idea?” she queried, and then it dawned on her. “Oh, you don't think that Will and I have got a thing going between us, do you? That's gross. Well, we have, but not in the way you think. You see, Will is not my lover, silly: he's my elder brother. I managed to persuade him to move to the city and set up a dissident cell here.”

In an instant, Rowan's day brightened up again. Now that Will had his mask off, he could clearly see the man's black hair and green eyes and the striking family resemblance. With tears streaming down his face, he held his arms out and spent some time hugging Holly whilst the other two went inside and kindly left them to it.

“So how did you manage to locate me, Rowan?” Holly wanted to know as she came back through to the cramped living room with a tray of coffee mugs and freshly cut sandwiches.

“The Bumper Book of Classic Jokes,” he informed her. “Well, you did say I'd find it enlightening. I noticed that the letter you'd left me was marking a page in the book. All the jokes on that page were about knitting, and that reminded me of the lady who runs the bookshop where you got the book and of her fondness for knitting. So I went on the internet, made a list of secondhand bookshops and went from one to the next until I finally found her. She arranged for Will and John and another guy to meet up with me. And here I am.”

“I'll get back to that in a minute, Rowan, but what other guy?” Holly asked, anxiously turning toward Will. “You didn't have a mishap on the way, did you?”

“Danny didn't make it,” Will replied. “We'd had a lot of trouble with the Fuss earlier and Rowan here noticed that Danny had a wire on him.”

“A wire?” she queried.

“A radio microphone,” Will explained.

“So you've been rumbled.”

Will nodded. “Yes. Fortunately Danny hasn't been in our cell for long enough to find out much. As a matter of routine, we've never used anything other than our first names. All the same, I think that we should proceed on the assumption that the Fuss now know who we are. I don't know about you, but John and Rowan here are going to have to get out of the city.”

“Well, that's settled. If Rowan goes, then I'm going with him,” Holly decided. “Apart from anything, I can't abide having to live in seclusion all the time for fear of being arrested, and that is grossly unfair to little Jonathan. Heavens, I really, really wish that we could get away from the damn Hive for good, but the bastards are everywhere. I mean it, no matter which way you turn, every time, there they are. I ask you: when will the subterfuge and the misery ever end?”

Will smiled and gently patted Holly's shoulder to console her. “In that case we'll all go, Holly.”

“So when do we go?” she asked, snapping out of her mood. “Give me an hour and I can be packed. Most of my things are still in bags, anyway, in case there's the chance of a raid and I have to move fast. Heavens, being cooped up like this is making me so paranoid and it's a wonder I haven't gone grey prematurely.”

Will checked his watch. “Well, it's getting late. Let's leave it until bright and early tomorrow morning. And in the meantime, I'll see if they can rustle up some transportation for us. We had to leave a car and a van at the safe house, and there's no way we can go back there.”

Holly turned back to Rowan. “Sorry about the digression, Rowan. You were telling me how you'd traced Gladys.”

“That's right,” he nodded, only too happy to change the subject.

“Well, I don't know how you fathomed all that out from the jokes inside the book,” she laughed. “I didn't even know that there were any jokes in the book about knitting. You see, I didn't pick a page, I just inserted the letter in the book at random. So finding the knitting was simply serendipitous.”

“Seren-what-icus?” he asked. “That's a word I don't know.”

Holly laughed. “Serendipitous, Rowan. It's not a word that features in Hive vocabulary and it implies that our lives are guided not by the Hive Mentality but by the subtle agents of destiny, and they are not without a sense of humour. There's much more to it that this, but let's just say that at the very least it's an amazing coincidence; indeed, serendipity is little short of a miracle. When we're feeling down in the dumps, it often surfaces unexpectedly and gives us a minor encouragement. In effect, what destiny is telling us is that we're on the right track.”

“How do you get this serendipity, then?” he wanted to know.

Holly laughed, presumably about his naivety. “You don't, silly. It's like getting a wild bird to feed from your hand. The bird will never come to you if you go out stalking birds and attempting to catch them. You have to be be very patient and gradually build up their confidence, trusting that eventually, when you're ready and they're ready, they will come to you. It also requires that you cultivate an attitude of gratitude, even before you have been rewarded, rather than after the event. And when you are eventually rewarded, it is largely because of that gratitude. In this respect, as in so many things, the Hive Minded are completely arse about face.”

“Arse about face?”

“Facing the wrong way,” she explained. “When they do someone a favour, more often than not, there's a concealed motive, which is that they've learnt that this is a good way of having a favour returned and of being praised or otherwise rewarded. Heavens, you could easily train your dog to do that much, and it's nothing more noble than crude social conditioning. In contrast, however, the way we try to go about things is to do someone a favour simply because it's the right thing and a good thing to do, without any thought of reward, simply trusting that whatever is meant to be will be. And yet they are the ones who speak so loudly and so often about Our Greater Good and consider themselves to be the only true paragons of virtue. Go figure.”

Holly nodded to herself, as if she'd had a fresh thought. “I have a new exercise for you, Rowan, and it this. Every now and then, instead of breathing slowly and deeply, pant for a few counts, then return to your normal breathing. When you are practising your breathing, as you inhale, silently say your mantra, the Om mani padme hum that I taught you. And each time you exhale, just say Thank you. And when you've got the hang of that, perhaps even alternate your thank you with the words I love you.

“Above all, really come to see and feel the presence of the friend and the spirit in everything, and really mean it with all your heart. Be thankful for everything, without condition; and simply be thankful that the friend is here, even if she is silent. You'll find that difficult at first, of course, but as the saying goes: just fake it till you make it. Your effort will prove well worth it in the end.”

“But anyhow, that's by the by, and I'm digressing again. Back to the book. Truth be told, I simply hoped that you'd be able to track down the lady at the bookshop who sold me that book. I was worried that if I said any more than that, the Fuss might smell something fishy and track me down the same way. Basically, I figured that if you really, really wanted to find me – and for the right reasons – that destiny would help you find a way; and if not, I hoped that you'd at least be decent enough to leave me alone.”

It was Rowan's turn to laugh.

“Anyhow people, as hostess I'm forgetting my manners,” Holly continued, clapping her hands together. “Eat your sandwiches before they start to dry out and your coffee goes cold. The only important thing is that you made it here safe and sound.”

A few minutes later, Holly came across and sat down beside Rowan, and she gently stroked his arm. “And then Mister, I think we should take an early night.”

“Do we have an early start?” he queried.

“No, no. So you can relax, sweetie,” Holly replied, shaking her head and surreptitiously running her hand over his lap. She took his hand in hers and placed it on her own warm thigh and he could feel the clasp of her suspenders and stocking top through the thin cheesecloth of her skirt.

“However,” she added at length, “we do have a lot of catching up to do.”

The others had discreetly left the room by now, pretending to busy themselves in the kitchen and Holly looked furtively around to make sure they weren't overlooked. Then she took his hand and ran it up her shin and over the inside of her thigh, pushing back the hem of her skirt as she went and revealing the sheer black stockings that she was wearing. His heart thrilled as he felt her warm, silky flesh beneath his fingers and she gently ran his hand over her tiny green silk panties and pressed her thighs together.

Rubbing her hand over his groin, Holly came close and whispered in his ear. “Is that a banana in your lunch box, or are you just pleased to see me?”

When he finally grasped Holly's meaning, Rowan could feel his face flush in embarrassment.

“But first things first,” Holly beamed, abruptly standing up and tugging him to his feet. “Let's go help the lads tidy up in the kitchen.”

14. Bringing up Jonathan

It took a good week to make arrangements, but finally the big day arrived. Just after sunrise, an old high-sided furniture removals wagon turned up at the door and Holly, Jonathan, Will and John clambered into the back of the wagon. Once they were safely locked inside, Rowan went to sit beside the driver up front in the cab and they set off on their long drive north.

They hadn't gone more than thirty miles when Rowan spotted the flashing blue lights in the rear view mirror, and when he heard the brief wail of the siren, an awful wave of fear swept over him.

“Here we go,” the driver said, flicking on his indicator, slowing the vehicle and pulling in by the side of the road.

Rowan's hand went to his jacket pocket and he released the safety catch of his disrupter. He did contemplate drawing the weapon, but then thought better of it.

A few moments later, a face appeared at the driver's side and a uniformed figure rapped on the window.

The driver wound down the window. “Yes, officer, what can we do for you?” the man enquired, a nervous quiver in his voice.

“Would you mind stepping out of the vehicle, please, sir?” the patrol officer requested, and casting a worried look in Rowan's direction, he complied.

“What appears to be the trouble, officer?” the driver asked.

“It's just a routine vehicle check, sir,” came the reply. “So if you wouldn't mind going round the back and opening her up ...”

Rowan drew in a deep breath and tried to remain calm. He opened the door at his side, clambered out of the high cab and sauntered round to join them as the driver opened up the tall rear doors.

“And what have we got here, sir?” the officer wanted to know, seeing Holly, Jonathan, Will and John sitting inside the wagon. There was a light on in the back and they'd made themselves comfortable on a settee and easy chair.

Will had stood up by now and he looked like he was on the verge of leaping on the patrol officer, but Rowan shook his head vigorously.

“Just some friends,” Rowan offered. “They're helping us move to our new apartment, and this was the only available transportation.”

The patrol officer raised his eyebrows and turned to the driver. “As we're sure you're aware, sir, your heavy goods licence does not permit you to carry passengers.”

“The driver shrugged. “Sorry, officer.”

“Anyhow, out you come, and have your identity cards ready: we shall want to check them.”

Damn it, that was the very last thing they needed.

The others clambered out and one by one they handed over their cards to the officer and went to stand, fidgeting nervously, by the side of the road. Again, Rowan was tempted to draw his weapon, but he knew that if he did, they'd have a body and an abandoned patrol car to deal with, too.

“Right,” the officer requested. “Stay where you are while we go and check these on the computer.”

Holly and Rowan exchanged worried glances, knowing full well that as soon as the patrol officer inserted their ID, alarm bells would be ringing. As yet, there hadn't been time to arrange new identities.

Rowan thought fast and as the officer returned to his patrol car, he followed him.

“Go back and stand with your friends, sir,” the officer requested, halting in his tracks and waving Rowan away.

“We have to talk to you, officer,” Rowan replied in hushed tones.

“We shan't tell you again, sir,” the officer replied sternly, nervously running his hand over his gun holster and unbuttoning it. Rowan weighed up the odds. Chances were that with his own disrupter in his inside jacket pocket, the officer would beat him to the draw.

There was only one thing for it. He had to break his oath of secrecy.

“Listen,” Rowan insisted. “We're with Special Investigations.”

The patrol officer took this in his stride and turned to face Rowan. “Then we'd like to see your warrant card, sir.”

“We're working undercover,” Rowan told him, ushering the man further away from the others. “So we don't have our warrant card with us. However, we can give you a number. Phone that number and ask to speak to Special Investigator Morrison. He'll vouch for us.”

The officer took out his notepad and wrote down the number and the extension. “Wait here,” he requested curtly and he got back in his patrol car. He was on the car phone for a minute or two and then he motioned toward Rowan. “It would appear that your story checks out, sir. Special Investigator Morrison would like a word with you.”

“Not now,” Rowan replied under his breath.

“The Special Investigator was most insistent.”

“We can't,” Rowan insisted, shaking his head. “This could blow our cover and jeopardize an operation that has taken years to set up. Tell him that we can't talk now, but assure him that we'll be in touch as soon as it's safe to do so.”

“Very well,” the officer shrugged and he went back to his car to relay Rowan's message.

A few moments later, the man returned and handed back their identity cards. “Very well, sir, all would appear to be in order, and we'll overlook the licensing offence. So you can go on your way. All hail the Hive.”

“One last thing, officer. Do you have your card reader with you?” Rowan enquired.

“Well, yes, but why?” the man wanted to know.

“So that we can grease your palm, officer.”

The officer glared at him angrily and again he was fingering his holster. “That is an insult, sir. We don't take bribes in the Service. You know, we have a good mind to arrest you anyway – and damn the consequences.”

Rowan raised his hands to calm the man down. “Hey, I know that and you know that, but the others don't, you see. This is for the sake of keeping up appearances, you understand.”

“Oh, we see.” Finally the officer got his meaning. He fished in his jacket pocket and brought out his card reader. Making sure that he was in plain sight of the others, Rowan inserted his own temporary credit card in the reader and tapped at the keypad. Then once the transaction had gone through, he removed and pocketed his card.

“Thank you for your help and understanding, officer. Buy yourself something nice. All hail,” Rowan nodded and he turned and trotted back to rejoin the others who were still anxiously waiting by the roadside.

“What happened?” Holly wanted to know as he handed back their identity cards and ushered them back into the wagon. She looked quite tense and agitated and beads of sweat were forming on her brow and dripping down her cheeks. It was a good thing that the patrol officer hadn't returned with him, for there was no disguising the utter fear written all over Holly's face. This is what she had to live with, just a whisker away; day in and day out.

“You can relax now, sweetheart. The officer was willing to take a backhander,” Rowan answered, as he helped the driver shut the big back doors. “We'll tell you all about it later.”

“Now, let's be on our way before the guy changes his mind,” he whispered, so that young Jonathan couldn't overhear. “If he does, then I'll have no option but to shoot to kill.”

Thankfully, the rest of the journey went without any further hitches. After a long and bumpy ride in the old wagon, they arrived safely at Chelmsford where they'd attempt to start afresh and rebuild their tattered lives.

Life for Holly, Rowan and Jonathan in Chelmsford was a little easier than it had been in the city. Fortunately, it was a small town with only a token presence of Enforcers, and though there were CCTV cameras in some of the larger shops, there were none in the town centre and the cameras were not as yet hooked up to Service HQ. So they could pretty much come and go as they pleased, having changed their appearance, using the false identities with which they'd been provided.

The only thing that they daren't do was be seen travelling around by car, since by default any private vehicle that passed a patrol car automatically had its registration plate and the faces of its driver and passenger scanned, fed into the computer and checked against the national database for a possible match.

And of course when it came to schooling, they had to be very, very careful what they said in front of Jonathan in case he inadvertently revealed something to his playmates or teachers at school. If they'd had the choice, Holly would have home-schooled the lad, but that option had been outlawed many years ago, when she was herself a child. At the time, the authorities had claimed that this was in order to promote and maintain high and consistent standards of education, though she knew full well that what they really wanted to do was make sure they caught and conditioned the kids at an early age. But in any case, even if the law still permitted home-schooling, that would not have been a wise move, for no Hive-respecting citizen would have considered home-schooling, and it would have pretty much amounted to an admission to a dissident tendency, which would have been suicidal.

Whenever Jonathan and his chums were around, they'd have to use Hive Talk and resort to coded phrases that would sound innocuous to the masses, yet convey a hidden depth of meaning to their fellow dissidents who were in the know. So they'd talk of “making a lot of fuss”, say, if they spotted an Enforcer. They'd use other loaded phrases when they recognized their kind; words that rhymed with others that only a dissident would understand; words with double or even triple meanings that only they would find funny; and of course, there were a great many subtle cues to which those of a Hive Mentality – these Straights or Sleepwalkers as they were sometimes known – were simply oblivious.

Just by way of example, any dissident worth her salt could smell and was aware of the delicate scent of sex; or conversely, for that matter, the pungent odour of regulation issue soap. She was aware of it because it actually physically and emotionally aroused her. She was open to this experience and she knew what this arousal meant. Contrast that with the threadbare lives of the Hive. The nearest they ever got to having sex was to have a sperm sample extracted from them or to be impregnated with that sperm. You know, the sort of clinical procedure you'd find at a modern factory farm. And people didn't even give birth naturally these days: in their wisdom, the Hive Doctors had the baby surgically removed. To them, it was more about their duty to rear decent Hive-abiding children than anything; and they were rapidly forgetting what real love, community spirit and Mother Nature herself were all about. In short, as her dear mother would lament from time to time, the tail was wagging the dog. If Mother could see the world as it had now become, bless her, she'd be turning in her grave.

Speaking of nature, this was Rowan's first time away from the noise and the grime and the hustle and bustle of the big city, and they'd spend hours walking and sitting together in the nearby park, drinking in the fresh air and the fragrance of the flowers and listening to the birds. The park was teeming with twittering birds of all kinds. This was the nearest Rowan had ever been to nature, and certainly as close to heaven as he'd ever been, and even this came as a minor revelation to him. He simply adored their walks and, like a small child, he was fascinated and wanted to know the name of every plant, tree, bird and butterfly that they came upon. Rowan's favourite pursuits were sitting there beneath the canopy of a magnificent, gnarled and twisted oak tree; watching the blue tits pecking at a hanging feeder and the bees collecting pollen from the rose bushes that filled the borders of the park. Even the smell of freshly mown grass was novel and a delight to Rowan. As for Jonathan, all he wanted to do was feed the ducks in the pond and feed his own face on icecream, though she had to keep him away from the geese which were far too pushy and aggressive. He simply couldn't get enough of the ducks or the icecream

But anyhow, back to Jonathan. On the face of it, then, bringing up Jonathan would present them with a huge and complex challenge, and there was no guarantee that when he was old enough to be let in on the Big Secret, that he would take to their dissident ways. For all they knew, Jonathan might never be sufficiently mature, wise and discreet, and they'd simply have to live with that sad fact. There could not be – nor should there be – any question of compulsion.

There was one thing that truly haunted Holly and which she hardly dare think about, and that was the grim prospect that Jonathan might turn against her, Will and Rowan and become a liability. Perish the thought, but if that happened, she might have to abandon Jonathan or cut him off from her life entirely. She'd actually seen this happen with two dear friends of hers, and they'd all heard the horror stories on the dissident grapevine, and the consequences were devastating. But no matter how much she loved the little dear, in such an event, she would have no other option. However grim, the truth was that too many lives were at stake. Indeed, there were some dissident cells, especially the more militant whose members faced the threat of execution, that refused to consider anyone who had children in their family, for precisely these reasons. But then, at the end of the day, who were they doing this for, if not for the sake of their children and their children's children? If anything, it was they who were the “Good Cause” and not the movement itself.

If there was a bright spot amidst these dull grey clouds, it was Holly's recognition that in spite of the odds stacked against them, her own dear mother and father had succeeded eminently well in their task in this benighted realm and she and Will had landed sunny side up and turned out okay.

Holly did what she could, of course, to give Jonathan as normal a life as possible. So they'd do the kind of thing that normal, Hive-abiding families would do. They took Jonathan to the park and bought him hotdogs and icecream and chocolate bars; and of course when he was inside, he loved to watch the children's programmes on the television. They'd let him bring his playmates home with him and have birthday celebrations; and when he was older, they'd let him go round to his friends' houses or, since the road outside their flat was pedestrianized, they'd let him play out in the street and the nearby playground.

Yes, sadly, they had to give in when Jonathan repeatedly pestered them for the latest trendy clothes and accessories. The last thing that they could afford to do was have the lad stand out like a sore thumb. Of course, these fashion clothes were cleverly designed to last just long enough to be out of warranty before falling apart. Their one redeeming feature was that they were were made of self-cleaning fabric, because if there was muck about, somehow kids always managed to find it.

And they also eventually caved in to his incessant requests for a cap gun so that he and his mates could play Enforcers and Dissidents. Needless to say, the Enforcers always got their man. Even now, and still in short pants, the lad was being trained for adult life as a Hide-abiding citizen, and at this stage there wasn't a damn thing that they could do to counter either the subtle or the blatant childhood grooming.

On the plus side, Will was always a fun guy to be with and he made a great uncle; and, being more grounded in Hive Culture, Rowan provided Jonathan with a solid foundation from which to grow. He was Mister Dependable. And it worked both ways, of course, for Rowan still had so much to learn; and sharing a simple family life with them, just like little Jonathan, he came on in leaps and bounds.

Indeed, this was a major growth period for them all and it brought real meaning, purpose, celebration, joy and love into their lives. These were a part of a timeless and nonpartisan tradition that secretly bridged the awesome divide between Hive and Dissident, and which they could freely pass onto their children without fear of censure. And it was simple pleasures and transferable skills such as these that offered them the greatest hope for a brighter future.

15. A familiar face

Rowan was just heading up town with Holly to take Jonathan to school, one day, when he caught sight of a man heading toward them and he instantly recognized him. His grey and black striped tee shirt had ex-con written all over it, just as burgundy would give away the wino to the tutored eye of an Enforcer. A dead giveaway, indeed. The masses, of course, were oblivious to these subconscious clues and to the secret industry behind them. This gave a whole new meaning to the phrase, “Suits you, sir.” As the man approached, he spotted them, too, and they met halfway. It was Elder Archer, no less.

He reached out his hand and the man pumped it for all it was worth. “Well, well! If it isn't our old friend …” the man began, but at this point Holly intervened, shaking her head and directing the man's attention to young Jonathan. He was still too young to understand, but he was quick on the uptake.

“This is an old pal, Archer. We met when we were working away from home,” Rowan announced and he introduced Holly.

El touched the brim of his woolly hat in greeting and Rowan could see that his hair was unusually short beneath it. Having been released before Rowan, that must mean that he'd spent another spell in jail, and he delicately broached the issue.

“'Fraid so,” El replied. “That's why we left the city. We figured it would be easier to keep our nose clean. Or at least less likely that we'd come a cropper.”

Less likely to get caught, that was. So, clearly the poor guy hadn't made it to Arcadia yet, except maybe in his dreams. Or if he had, then it hadn't done him one iota of good.

Little Jonathan was by now straining at the leash, tugging at Rowan's hand and eager to be off to see his playmates before school started, and Rowan glanced at his watch. “Look, Archer. We're just on the way to take our nipper to school. But how's about we meet up later and talk about old times?”

Getting down on his haunches, El fished in his pocket, brought out a pen and an old till receipt and scribbled something on the back.

“That's the address,” he announced, handing over the note. “We'll be in all day, so just call whenever is convenient,” and again touching his hand to his woolly hat, the man was off down the street.

Having left Jonathan at school, Rowan and Holly headed off across town to El's place and after a little searching they found the address. It turned out that he had a poky little attic flat in a house in the old town.

“Excuse the mess,” El apologized, waving his arms around. He went over to the settee and cleared a space, dumping the heap of dirty washing on the floor instead. No self-respecting dissident would live in such a pig sty. “Take a seat,” he offered and waited until they were settled. “Now, would you like a tea or a coffee?”

Rowan politely declined, having seen the deplorably unclean state of the empty mug in El's hand and gently nudging Holly with his elbow. “Thanks all the same, but we had a drink before we came out.”

“Right, oh. Well, feel free to change your mind if you fancy one later. If you'll excuse us, we'll just pop through to the kitchen for a minute. Don't go away: we shan't be long.”

El left the room and headed for the kitchen, closing the door behind him and Holly turned to Rowan.

“Rowan, there's something wrong.”

Rowan was puzzled. “How do you mean?”

“Don't ask me why, sweetie, but there's something wrong here. I think that we should leave.”

He shook his head. “El's an old friend, Holly. We're his guests and we can't just walk out on him.”

“Then we should leave at the earliest opportunity. Please, you have to trust me on this one.”

Five minutes later, El returned from the kitchen, and he was empty-handed. He'd taken his coat off but he was still wearing his woolly hat. Perhaps he felt embarrassed walking around with shaved hair, looking like he'd just been released from jail, as indeed he had.

“Sorry for the delay, folk, we suddenly remembered that we had to make a phone call.”

“You don't have to Hive Talk with us, you know, El,” Holly spoke up.

“Oh, sorry. It's just that we're trying to keep out of trouble. Two spells in jail was enough for us.”

A sudden thought occurred to Rowan and he got up from the settee and casually wandered across the room. As he passed El, he reached out and snatched the woolly hat from the man's head.

“Hey, whatcha doing?” El wanted to know.

When Holly saw the telltale scars on the man's shaven head, which were still slightly red and inflamed, she sprang to her feet. The man hadn't been back inside, he'd been lobotomized – or Robotomized as the dissidents more accurately called it, poor devil – and her intuition had been spot on. You had to avoid these unfortunate people like the plague. “Let's get out of here, Rowan.”

“Oh, you're not leaving us so soon are you? The party hasn't started yet,” El pleaded, rising to his feet. Rowan pushed him back down in his seat and headed for the door, hot on Holly's heels.

“'Fraid so, old chap,” he called back. “I'm really sorry, but something urgent has come up. We'll see you later.”

They managed to reach the top of the stairs, but they got no further. Fat boy Harrison was clambering up the final flight with his sidekicks in tow. And it occurred to Rowan then that the ape must have already got wind that they'd moved to the town. Something must have given them away prior to El's phone call.

“There you are, you see,” El called out. He came up behind them and addressed Harrison and as he did so, he surreptitiously slipped something into Rowan's pocket. “We told you we'd seen 'em the other day. Maybe now you believe us? That's got to be worth an ounce of weed.”

Well, that explained the mystery.

Harrison was almost at the top of the stairs now and though Rowan could have easily handled El behind him, there was only one way out. Drawing a deep breath, he ran at the stairs full pelt and dived at Harrison. He caught the man with his head right in the pit of his stomach, throwing him backwards. The man tumbled noisily down the stairs, making the floor shudder. His arms and legs flailing uselessly, he bowled over his two sidekicks and knocked the stuffing out of them before finally crashing into the wall at the bottom and coming to rest.

Justice had been a bit slow on the uptake but had finally caught up with Harrison, and he was hospitalized, of course. Harrison had broken his jaw and spent weeks sipping food through a straw. But that was the least of his worries, for he'd also damaged his spine and never walked again.

Ignoring his own pains, Rowan scrambled to his feet, grabbed hold of Holly's hand and they took the stairs two at a time, clambering over the prone men and heading for the front door. As soon as they were outside, Rowan clicked the speed dial on his phone to get hold of Will.

“Will?” he yelled into the phone, thinking fast. “We've been rumbled. Plan B: get the van and bring it straight round to the school. Holly and I are heading there now to pick up Jonathan, by force if necessary. Yes. Okay, I've got that. See you there in ten minutes.”

As they were heading for the school, Rowan again fished in his pocket to double check that he'd switched off his phone and as he did so, something fluttered to the ground.

It must have caught Holly's eye, because she stopped in her tracks and chased after it as it fluttered away in the breeze.

“You dropped something,” she announced, catching him up.

“Thanks, sweetie,” he replied, forcing a smile and, seeing that it was just a piece of paper, he thrust it into his pocket and again increased his pace. “Remind me to pull the SIM card from the phone when we next get a chance, because when Jonathan doesn't turn up for school tomorrow, questions will be asked and the Fuss won't be far behind.”

“Hey, slow down tiger,” Holly called, desperately trying to keep pace with him. “My legs aren't as long as yours, you know.”

“Sorry.” He slackened his pace just a little so that Holly didn't have to trot to keep up.

“So where do we go from here?” he asked.

“It's okay, sweetie, Will and I have already planned for that eventuality. We have people at Horsham a few miles further north and we'll hole up there for a while until something more permanent can be sorted out.”

“Oh heavens,” Holly sighed and she looked uncharacteristically crestfallen. “We're going have to go through settling into a new place with new identities all over again. And I haven't the foggiest idea how we'll sort out poor Jonathan. Most likely we'll have to keep him away from school altogether and hide him. When children start school or move to a new school, they always take biometrics – things like iris recognition – and then it's only a matter of time before the Fuss check the database and find a match. I can see that this is going to be an absolute bloody nightmare. Heavens above, I wish there were a way to finally escape the Hive.”

Anyhow, five minutes later Holly had retrieved Jonathan from the school, spinning the teacher a tale about a doctor's appointment, and Will and John had turned up with the van. It would be a bumpy ride sitting on the floor in the back, but if nothing else, they'd be good company.

Of course, Jonathan was old enough by now to know that something was amiss.

“Mummy,” he began, as Holly bundled him into the back of the van. “We thought you told Teacher Sharpe that you had to take us to the doctor? But we only went there last week and she said that there was nothing wrong with us. And anyway, why can't we walk? It's only round the corner from school.”

Rowan exchanged glances with Holly and she merely raised her eyebrows. This was going to take some explaining and he could see that Holly did not relish the difficult task ahead of her.

While he still remembered, Rowan pulled the phone out of his pocket to remove the SIM card, and he advised John to do the same for him and Will. And again, the paper popped out of his pocket and fluttered to the ground.

“That piece of paper has a will of its own,” Holly laughed and she picked it up. Rowan casually unfolded it to see if it was worth keeping. If not, he'd chuck the blessèd thing.

“What's that?” Holly wanted to know, having a nosy.

“You tell us,” he shrugged. There was a crude map of some kind on the paper, drawn in ink. “We must have absentmindedly picked it up by mistake on our travels.”

“Well, that 'W' on the coast has got to be Widdensborough, not that far north of here,” she said, padding her finger on the map. “There's a large promontory there with the remnants of an ancient castle, and bays carved out to the north and south.”

Rowan was puzzled. “Well, if that's the east coast, then what on earth is that?” Over the other side of the map, still further east, there was another, less extensive coastline with a large 'A' written on it in a large circle.

Holly shrugged. “There is nothing there, Rowan. There's just sea.”

“Oh well, we're sure it's not important,” he replied, and he was about to screw the paper up and throw it away, but had second thoughts and put it back in his jacket pocket. He'd give it another chance and if the note popped out a third time, trying to escape, then he'd throw it away.

After a tortuous three hour drive, they arrived on the outskirts of Horsham and not having a street map, whether they liked it or not, they had to ask for directions. Before he'd taken the SIM card out, John had phoned ahead and when they arrived at the safe house there was someone there to greet them. Their contact had brought supplies with him to see them through for a couple of days whilst further arrangements were made. The man didn't give his name and nor did they. Unfortunately, with things the way they were, the less they knew about one-another the better for all concerned, and the man was taking a big enough risk as it was.

Later that evening, after they'd eaten and Jonathan had brushed his teeth and was safely tucked up in bed, Holly came to sit beside Rowan and they spent an hour or two relaxing as best they could.

“Jonathan is not a happy bunny,” Holly confided. “I spun him another yarn about taking him away on holiday as a surprise, but my gut is telling me that I'm digging myself deeper and deeper into a hole with each fib I tell him. That lad is as bright as a button. I didn't tell you, Rowan, but the other day Jonathan happened to mention that his playmate Barnard's father had said that he thinks I have dissident tendencies.”

“Oops.”

“Oops and ouch, indeed,” Holly nodded. “I didn't even know until that moment, that Jonathan had already added 'dissident tendencies' to his vocabulary. That's a lot of syllables and a hefty concept for a six year old to carry, for crying out loud. And this kind of thing is happening more and more these days – I mean, with kids in general.”

Rowan reached out and put his arm around Holly and drew her closer to him. “Perhaps it's time we dropped the pretence and told him the whole story, Holly?” he suggested.

Holly pursed her lips and slowly blew out her breath and she didn't have to say any more: the meaning was quite clear.

Had Holly known that all this time, instead of being tucked up in bed, Jonathan had been quietly listening at the keyhole, steam would instead have been erupting from her ears. But at this time they were all blissfully unaware of the lad's suspicions.

It had been a long and stressful day, and they were both dog tired. So tired, in fact, that within minutes of cuddling up together, they both fell fast asleep. Will was still too agitated to relax and so he kept an eye out for unwelcome guests through the window and watched over them that evening.

“Heavens!” Rowan exclaimed, waking up all of a sudden. “Oh I'm sorry, I just had a minor revelation,” he apologized, having inadvertently put the others on red alert. Holly was wide awake and Will was on his feet, ready to take on all comers.

Holly looked at her watch. “Well, it's getting late and we should be turning in, just in case we have to be away from here early tomorrow. Anyone fancy a cocoa?”

There were nods all round.

When Holly had returned and settled on the settee again, Rowan brought out the map and placed it on her knee.

“I think that I know what the 'A' stands for,” he informed them. “A while back when I was inside, I met a guy called El. He's the one who dobbed us in to Harrison. Anyhow, he had this dream – I mean this fantasy – of finding his way to some mythical paradise he called Arcadia.”

Holly raised her eyebrows, but said nothing.

“I didn't notice at the time, but I must have noticed subconsciously, because I just dreamt about it. Anyhow, while Harrison was coming up the stairs he must have slipped this map into my pocket. You see that land mass off the coast to the east? I'll bet my last credit that the 'A' stands for Arcadia.”

Holly laughed. “It may well be, sweetie, but that's not going to help us much. As I said, there is nothing east of here, other than sea.”

“Oh well, it was worth a shot,” he sighed.

“Do you know that for a fact, sis'?” Will asked Holly, coming toward her.

“Well no,” she faltered. “Thinking about it, I guess not. That's just what we've all been told.”

Will took the map from her lap and studied it for some time and he smiled. “You know, once upon a time, when we were just kids, I remember Mother telling me a bedtime story about a place over the sea that was free from the Hive, and I'm almost certain the name was something like Arcadia or Arcady. Of course, as Rowan suggests, it might just have been a fairytale.

“But you know as well as I do that even if it did exist, the Hive Masters would have made sure it was erased from the record and that folk were kept away from there.”

That raised Rowan's spirits immensely. “Well, El must have thought it very important, or he wouldn't have run the risk of passing the map on to me,” he offered.

Will scratched his chin thoughtfully. “Call it a hunch, but I think that if we get the chance, we should head over to Widdensborough and research this ourselves. If there is any land east of there, whatever it might really be called, then someone there is sure to know.”

“I'm tempted to agree, Holly,” Rowan nodded. “I mean, what have we got to lose? And if nothing else comes of it, Widdensborough would be as good a place to settle down again as any.”

Will had a thought. “It strikes me that if the only other place marked on the map is Widdensborough that this must be significant and it surely can't be coincidental that this is the one place on the coast that is closest to the other land mass. And let's face facts, no matter where we go in this land, they're going to be on our tail again sooner or later and none of us are getting any younger. Do you really still want to be on the run when you're in your dotage, if there's even a slim chance of getting out of the game for good?”

Holly raised her hands. “Okay, okay, you've twisted my arm. Will and I will see what we can arrange. In purely practical terms, we might as well go somewhere decent and with a purpose rather than somewhere picked from the map purely at random. Only don't blame me if it all goes pear-shaped.”

“Hey, lady,” Will chided Holly, coming over to playfully tickle her ribs. “Let's not put a jinx on the operation before we even embark, through unnecessary and uncalled-for negative thinking.”

“Sorry, Will,” she apologized sheepishly. “I'm just tired, that's all.”

“I know what you're going through,” Rowan replied in soothing tones, gently squeezing Holly's hand.

“No, Rowan, you don't know the half of it. You just think you know.”

Rowan clasped Holly's hand in his. “Maybe not, but I can imagine what you must be going through right now, and I do feel for you, Holly. I really do.”

“And I'll be eternally grateful to you, Holly, for bringing me back to my senses, so that I can feel for others,” he added.

Again Holly became serious. “Promise me something, Rowan,” she asked in earnest.

“Sure, anything,” he nodded. “Just name it and it's yours.”

She clasped Rowan's hand tightly. “Promise me then, beloved, that if they do catch us, that they don't take me alive.”

The colour drained from Rowan's face and he shuddered at the thought.

“Don't worry, dearest,” he hastily replied, forcing a smile. “They won't catch us again.”

16. Widdensborough

When they arrived in Widdensborough, the first thing they did was book in for a night at a small, run-down hotel overlooking the seafront and harbour. Even simple pleasures like trips to the seaside were falling by the wayside these days as the demands of “the Work” encroached more and more on their increasingly impoverished lives. Not yet having adapted to these changing times and diversified, half the shops and hotels in town had shut down and the premises had been boarded up.

Will had managed to get hold of a temporary credit card, and they used that, in order to preserve their anonymity. The landlady did give them the hairy eyeball when Will presented it, but the credits on the card were as good as any other, so she accepted the payment without any fuss.

It was near enough lunchtime when they arrived and once they'd freshened up, the five of them went for a brisk walk along the seafront in the bracing sea breeze. You could smell the seaweed and actually taste the salt in the air. If nothing else, the walk would be good exercise and it would blow away a few cobwebs.

They found a small café not far from the harbour and so they had real fresh, locally caught battered fish. That went down a treat, of course, and little Jonathan wolfed his food down, though Holly thought the mass-produced microwaved chips and vivid green processed peas were a bit of a let down. The peas were so bright green that she thought they might perhaps glow in the dark. That might well have been the case, for all food was irradiated these days, supposedly so that it didn't rot in transit and storage.

Of course if shops sold locally grown produce, instead of shipping it hundreds of miles from humongous factory farms to processing plants, to warehouses and finally to local shops, then that would not be a problem; but that's not the way the Hive worked. It was all about efficiency, economy of scale, profit and bureaucratic entanglement; and simple, old-fashioned, folk remedies like common sense didn't get a look in.

Holly had seen a few fellow dissidents as they'd wandered along the seafront toward the café, and she and Will had exchanged covert greetings with them, though bless him, Rowan had been largely oblivious of their presence. And now that their stomachs were feeling satisfyingly full, Holly thought that it was about time they made first contact, so the first thing she did was send Jonathan off with Uncle John to have a go on the amusements and find an icecream.

The amusements were a bit of a con, of course, because they ate your credits and if you won, they paid out in tokens which you had to spend on expensive toys on the premises. What the hell, Holly shrugged: the lad would have fun, the rides would be exhilarating, and it would keep him occupied and out of the way for an hour or two while they went about their clandestine business. In two or three years time, the conditioning would really kick in and Jonathan would leave these things behind him, so they might as well make the most of his short childhood while it lasted.

Holly had seen an old fisherman in his salt-bleached blue canvas smock and waterproof dungarees. He was just about to turn off the seafront when she managed to catch his eye and approach him.

“Hi there,” she greeted the weather-beaten man in hushed tones. “We're new in town and we were hoping that you might be able to help us.”

The old man looked the three of them up and down and then, quite out of the blue, he nodded to the lane. “Follow me,” he requested. They walked some way along the old cobbled lane and then, looking furtively around, the old man quickly directed them down a narrow alleyway between some shops. They turned a corner, out of sight of the lane and the old man stopped in front of a tatty, unmarked door. There was a small glass lens set into the door about eye height and Holly presumed that this was so that the occupant could see who was at the door. The old man knocked three times in quick succession; then a further three times more slowly, and finished off with another three raps in quick succession.

“It's an old Moorish code,” he quietly confided as they patiently waited for an answer. A minute or two later, the door opened, they were ushered inside and the door was again promptly locked and bolted.

Safely inside the building, they could relax and the old sailor introduced himself as Jack Morgan.

“Down here, young'uns,” old Jack invited them and they descended a spiral staircase made of finely wrought, scrolled iron and thick wooden planks.

“Those timbers came off a very old ship, The Mary Lou”, Jack proudly informed them. “We tries out best to keep the old crafts alive, but it's getting harder as the years go by,” he lamented.

“Yes, I can imagine,” Holly nodded.

At the bottom of the spiral staircase, when they entered a bar, it was like stepping into a bygone age. The front and top of the bar were made of the finest hardwood and still highly polished despite years of use, and here and there, old nets, crab pots and other fishing paraphernalia was used to decorate the room. There were one or two prize fish hanging on the wall, too, and they must have been stuffed and preserved, for they still looked as alive as the day they were caught.

“Not many big fish like that about, these days,” old Jack lamented. “Sea's just about fished out. You know, when I was a nipper, the harbour would be packed with trawlers and herring boats, but now there's just a handful of boats and skippers left. A crying shame it is, a crying shame.”

They went to stand at the bar and waited for old Jack to catch the eye of the bartender and place an order and they each had a pint of the landlord's best ale. Will offered to pay, but old Jack would have none of it. “No, no. That's what friends are for,” he smiled. “Unless of course you fancy buying a second round?”

“You're on,” Will beamed back.

“Now, I should warn you, young'uns,” Jack told them. “Not only is this ale alcofrolic, it's also a rather strong brew, so pace yourself. The last thing we want is you staggering around up topside and getting yourselves arrested.”

Jack found them a cosy table in a corner of the bar and he fished in his pocket and produced an old brier pipe and a pouch of tobacco, spending some time filling the bowl of the pipe. “If you'll excuse me for a minute or two, I need to step out into the back yard for some fresh air, otherwise the baccie will make our clothes smell. If the pohlees get a whiff of it, we'll be in for it.”

When the man said “pohlees”, he was probably referring to the Enforcers. Like alcohol, the use of tobacco had been prohibited long ago, while Holly was still a young child.

Soon enough, old Jack was back, leaving a plume of grey-blue tobacco smoke in his wake.

“You can get hold of the stuff for a price if you know where to look and who to ask,” the old man explained to them, seeing Holly's interest. “I'm damned if them Hive-minded baboons are going to take away a working man's simple pleasures. 'Course before we leave we'd best pick up a packet of strong mints from the bar, to help disguise the smell of the beer and baccie.”

The old man had a few sips of his beer, then turned to them. “Right then, young'uns. You said you were looking for help. What can I do for you? I can't promise anything, mind, but there's no harm in asking. I won't take offence if you ask, and please don't you take offence if I have to say no.”

Rowan spoke up. “We were told that there's land out to the east of here,” he began and straight away old Jack's interest was piqued.

Rowan brought out the map and showed it to the man. Old Jack felt in his pocket, brought out a pair of reading glasses and examined the map more closely.

“Well that 'W' is Widdensborough,” Jack pointed out. “That's quite clear. Yes, without a shadow of a doubt.”

Holly nodded. “Yes, that's what we thought, and it's the reason we're here.”

“So what's this other land?” Jack wanted to know. “If the map's anything like to scale, I'd say it must be fifty miles off the coast.”

“We're reliably informed that the 'A' stands for Arcadia or Arcady,” Holly informed the old man.

“Well I never did,” the old man exclaimed, taking off his reading glasses and looking her in the eye. “Why I remember my old grandma telling me about a place called Arcadia. Over the sea it was, she says. I've been at sea since I was fourteen and, as you can tell, I'm getting on a bit now. But I must say that in all that time, I've never once heard of anyone going there or coming back.”

“Well, I never,” he said again, handing the map back to Rowan.

Then: “But of course we've never gone more than three or four miles out, you see, not since them Hive baboons took over, and that's a long while back. They won't let us stray that far. So for all I know, there really may be a place there called Arcadia. Even if it's not called Arcadia, I can't believe for one minute that there's just sea out there like they keep telling us. It stands to reason there must be more land.”

“To be honest, Jack, we don't particularly care what they call the place as long as it's free of the Hive,” Holly told the man. “I'm growing thoroughly sick and tired of the Hive Mentality and with being on the run from the Enforcers – the pohlees, as you call them – and I'm hoping and praying that we can find someone willing to take us there to find out.”

“We have money and we're more than willing to pay whatever it costs,” Will added, flashing the temporary credit card.

As an added bonus, the card wasn't even charged with their own money: one of Will's contacts had just done what the banks did when they needed funds, which was type in a suitably large number of imaginary credits at a terminal and swipe the card through the machine. That was the beauty of the temporary cards: the credits were actually stored in the card, and there was no account involved. And it also showed the level of stupidity of the Bankers, who were so lax that they could let this travesty happen. Well, more fool them, that's all she could say.

Old Jack rose to his feet. “Alright, let's get another round in. Then give me a minute or two”, the man suggested. “I'll have a talk with one of the other skippers. His boat's a bit bigger than mine and it'll fare better offshore. And if he's willing and heaven's willing, I'll bring him across to have a proper chin wag and sort out the details.”

As the saying had it, even miracles have details, Holly mused.

A few minutes later, old Jack returned, bringing the other skipper with him. The man was far younger, but almost as weather-worn as old Jack and he was built like the side of a bus. He didn't give his name and didn't ask to be introduced, which – given the dangers involved – was a prudent course of action, and he wanted to hear what they themselves had to say about the proposed voyage, so Rowan explained what little they knew, or hoped for. Though the man wasn't as easy going or amiable as old Jack, by the time Rowan had finished his spiel, he seemed satisfied enough.

“Well, you'll be paying whether you find land or not,” the man shrugged, “so, given a few necessary precautions, I'm willing to give it a go. Of course, I'd prefer not to have to bring you back, otherwise we'll have to get the timing right so that you're not seen leaving the boat.

“I agree with friend Jack here. The land looks like it's about fifty miles off the coast, and I'm willing to go a few miles further if needs be, but if we still haven't found it, then we'll have to turn back. I figure I can get about eight knots out of the boat, but we'll pick a more conservative speed and bank on sixty miles, just to be on the safe side. So let's say that the trip could take us eight and a half hours.”

All they could do was nod and take the man's word for it. “Sure, you're the expert,” Holly nodded.

“Okay then. Looking at the tide tables, the best time to set sail would be no later than four in the morning and since that is such an early start, we'll get you on board later tonight when it's dark and the harbour's quiet, and you can sleep down below. When we're away from the coast, you can come up and stretch your legs, but be sure to wrap up warmly.

“If there's land there, we should reach it by lunchtime tomorrow.”

The skipper looked at his watch and rose to his feet. “Anyhow, meet me at the boat sharp on ten o'clock. The boat will be at this end of the quay. It's white with a red stripe the full length of the hull and the name's Fishy Business.”

The man shrugged apologetically. “I know, she was my old man's boat and I didn't choose the name. Anyhow, the main thing is, she's still seaworthy.”

“Oh, first things first, it might help if you paid me up front. Its nothing personal, like, but I've been let down on charters before,” the skipper smiled, tapping himself with the side of the head to jog his memory. “Hello, is there anybody in there?”

He pulled a handheld card reader from his pocket, tapped at the keypad and placed it on the table and Will went into his pocket, inserted the card and followed the on-screen instructions. Shortly afterwards, the machine pinged and printed two paper receipts and Will retrieved the card. He was going to take one of the receipts but the skipper took them instead, tore them into shreds and tossed the bits on the nearby fire. “Sorry, can't be too careful,” he apologized. “What the pohlees don't know, the heart doesn't grieve, as my dear old dad used to say.”

That done, the man turned to leave. “Anyhow, I must dash. See you later.”

They managed to find the boat soon enough that night and the skipper was there waiting to hurry them on board and safely down below, out of sight. There were only two narrow bunks down there and Will, Rowan and John very gallantly let her and Jonathan have the upper bunk. Then they spent a minute or two arguing that the other person deserved the second bunk until she had the good sense to suggest that the three of them either slept together sitting sideways on the bunk or else they took it in turns, and they quickly settled on the latter option.

With all the excitement, none of them slept well that night and in any case a couple of other crew members had come on board by now and they were busy in the galley brewing coffee and cooking a fry up before it was time to cast off. Seeing them still awake, one of the guys asked if they could go a coffee, and in the end all seven of them were down there tucking into a three A.M. feast while the skipper sat up top in the cabin. With so many down below, it became a little hot and sweaty and the portholes steamed up, but Holly's mind was on other things and she could live with that for a while.

Finally, at just coming up to four o'clock, they were underway. It was pretty easy going while they were inshore but as they got further and further out to sea, out of the shelter of the town's south bay, the boat began to pitch and roll with increasing intensity. Holly managed to keep her food down, but poor little Jonathan looked distinctly green around the gills and Holly thought it best if she went to ask advice of one of the crew. He came down into the galley, went into the first aid cabinet and produced a brown bottle and a dessert spoon. He had all five of them take two full measures of some vile green concoction before returning to the cabin and fortunately they all managed to keep their food down.

Eventually nodding off and sleeping well into the morning, after which one of the crew made them another fry up for breakfast, they didn't emerge on deck until one of the crew excitedly called down below to say that the skipper had spotted land. They didn't need a second prompting and they raced up on deck to see for themselves, without a trace of the seasickness remaining.

“Well, bless your heart, you were right,” the skipper nodded, handing Will a pair of binoculars, and they took turns to peer through them. “Who'd have thought it, eh?”

“Big enough place, too,” the skipper added. “If it's an island, I reckon it must be thirty miles across and heaven knows how deep. Well, I certainly hope that you find what you wanted there.”

As they drew closer, Will pointed something out to the skipper and the man had a look. “Looks like a quay,” he nodded, and he turned the the wheel and headed toward it.

“Not just a quay,” one of the crew said. “I can see two boats there and twenty or more houses.”

The skipper turned to Holly. “If we hadn't found any signs of habitation here, I was going to suggest that I could wait a few hours, so that you had time to decide whether you wanted to stay there or not. But since it looks civilized, I'll see if I can tie up on the quay. I'll wait an hour and you can either return with us or stay, depending on whether you find the natives friendly or hostile. It's your choice. But if you're not back in an hour, then I'll cast off.”

Holly nodded. “Okay, that seems fair enough, Skipper. Thanks a lot, you don't know how much this means to us, to finally get away from the Hive.”

The skipper turned and smiled at her. “Oh, you know, I was young once myself and I think I can guess.

“Okay lads, we're getting close now. Let's have you out on deck. Keep a sharp lookout: I don't want to prang the boat, because it's a helluva long way to paddle back home and I'm not sure that the insurance will cover this trip.”

17. The Last Chance

One of the crew slung several old rubber tyres over the side of the boat and as they gently bumped up against the quay, two of the crewmen clambered up a rusty metal ladder and tied the boat up fore and aft, then lowered the gang plank so that Holly, Rowan, Will, John and Jonathan could safely step ashore. They waved to the skipper and eagerly headed along the old stone quay, then up a steep cobbled street toward the houses to get out of the brisk offshore wind and find a place to rest.

Spotting what looked like an inn not far from the tiny harbour, Holly took hold of little Jonathan's hand and they hurried to get inside out of the chilly sea air. The Last Chance was a wonderfully quaint old inn with blackened wooden beams and low doorways. The people must have been smaller when the inn was first built and even she had to duck her head to avoid banging it on the top of the doorway on the way in.

“Hello,” Holly called excitedly, spotting the lovely, flickering log fire in one corner and dashing up to the counter. Now this was a real home away from home.

“Yes, my love, what would you like?” asked the old lady who was serving at the bar. She wore an old-fashioned dark blue dress down to her ankles and her long grey hair was combed back and held in a bun behind her head by a fine net and hairgrips.

“Well, we'll order in a moment, but first of all, I'm bursting to know one thing. Is this Arcadia?”

The old lady raised her eyebrows. “Why, it's been a few years since it's been called that, my dear, and of course life has changed a lot since then.”

Holly was cock-a-hoop. “Oh wow!” Her arm around Jonathan's shoulder, she surveyed the bar. “Then we'll have a glass of lemonade for my son here and four pints of your strongest beer, please.”

“You'll want the Number Three, then,” the old lady smiled. “There we are, little one,” she smiled, finding a safe plastic beaker, pouring out a lemonade for Jonathan and handing it over. Three huge gulps later and it was half gone.

Then the old lady reached under the bar to fetch four real glasses and worked the old hand pump. Gosh, this was getting better and better.

“Are you planning on staying here long?” the old lady enquired as she handed over the first of the beers.

“Well, we were hoping that we might settle down here permanently,” Holly chirped up as she passed the beer to Will.

“Oh, that is good. People soon settle in here, my dear,” the old lady smiled, passing the second pint to Rowan and working on the third.

When the four of them had received their drinks, they clinked their glasses. “Cheers,” they toasted one-another in unison. “Your good health.”

Will was the first to notice and he whispered to Holly. “Is it just me or is this beer alcohol free?”

Holly shrugged and went back to her drink. “Will, I'll let you know after I've downed one or two more pints,” she laughed.

“Oh yes, people soon settle in here,” the lady repeated. And then she paused and shrugged her shoulders. “And if they don't, well ...”

“Well?” Rowan prompted.

“Well if they don't, our love, then we have our menfolk feed them to the fishes,” the woman replied matter-of-factly as she stood there polishing glasses. “You'll find we're plain and simple folk in these parts and we don't believe in mollycoddling.”

Rowan could feel a terrible lump rising in his throat and he and Holly exchanged horrified glances. And for the first time as they scanned around the room, they noticed that all eyes were upon them as they stood there at the bar.

“Anyhow,” the old lady continued unabashed, “we expect you'll be wanting rooms for the next few nights, until we can arrange something more suitable for you. We only have single rooms, you understand, so there'll be no how's your father.”

“It's alright, Mummy,” Jonathan chirped up as he finished his lemonade and returned his beaker to the bar. “We won't hurt you as long as you do as you're told.”

What was that Holly had said about things going pear-shaped?

18. The last stand

Instinctively, Rowan's hand went to his jacket pocket, ready to slip the safety catch off his disrupter and prime it. He was shocked to find the weapon gone.

“Are you looking for this?” Jonathan enquired, bringing the gun out of his own pocket and waving it threateningly in Rowan's direction. The red light was flashing, which meant that the gun was already armed.

“Hey, that's not a toy, you know,” Rowan replied nervously, edging closer.

Just then, Will crept up behind the lad and snatched the disrupter from his hand. Jonathan must have had his finger on the trigger, because a bright blue bolt shot from the muzzle, whistled past Rowan's left shoulder and exploded in a shower of sparks on the far wall of the bar.

Will tossed the gun in Rowan's direction. He caught it in mid air and swung round on the locals who by now had risen from their seats and were warily advancing on the group.

Will snatched Jonathan up in his arms and Rowan ushered the others toward the door, firing a shot into the ceiling and showering the bar in loose plaster. “Armed Enforcer!” he bellowed. “Stay where you are or I'll shoot!”

That was a lie, of course, but it threw the locals into a state of confusion, hopefully long enough to allow them to make their getaway; and they continued to back away toward the door.

Jonathan was giving his Uncle Will a helluva time; kicking and screaming and trying to break free, but the man had tight hold of him.

Finally they were out through the door.

“Make for the boat!” Rowan yelled as the locals began to crowd through the door. He could see now that at least one of them was armed. He had the breech of a shotgun open and he was rummaging in his pocket for a couple of cartridges.

Just then, Jonathan bit Will on the hand and he yelled out and involuntarily dropped Jonathan. In an instant, the lad was free.

“We hate you, we hate you, we hate you!” the lad screamed at Rowan before turning away, and he dashed back to the inn.

That long dreaded, unthinkable possibility had finally happened.

Holly was horrified and overwrought. “Jonathan!” she screamed; then she spun round and faced Rowan. “Rowan, you have to do something.”

Rowan caught sight of the man as he closed the breach of the shotgun and he fell to his knee and fired, catching the man full in the chest and bowling him over. As the shotgun hit the cobbles, it went off and shot across the street with the recoil, but thankfully nobody was hurt.

“Jonathan, please come here!” Holly called out and she held her arms out beseechingly. “Jonathan!”

“No, we won't! We like it here and we don't want to go anywhere with you!” he yelled back, and the lad turned away to bury his head in the old lady's long skirt.

Holly looked beseechingly to Rowan and then she shook her head sadly. “Oh Rowan, I'm his mother,” she sighed. “If Jonathan wants to stay here, then that is what I must do.”

Holly had just begun to walk toward the locals when Will caught hold of her by the arm. “No, Holly,” he replied sternly. “There's nothing that you can do for the lad now.” He had to forcibly drag Holly off and headed back down the cobbled street toward the quayside while Rowan covered them. Shots rang out and whistled past their heads and Rowan reluctantly returned fire.

He could see now that the disrupter was almost on empty, and that he might just about be able to squeeze out another three shots before it packed in and began the slow automatic emergency recharge.

He turned away. “Run for your lives!” he called out, and they pelted down the cobbled street and onto the old stone quay.

The skipper was up on deck and watching them through his binoculars, alerted by the gunfire, and as they approached the boat Rowan called out. “Get ready to cast off!”

Only then did he see that the boat had already cast off and see the plume of blue smoke emerge from the exhaust as the skipper fired up the diesel engine.

Already he was pulling away from the quay.

“No, no! Wait!” they all cried as they stood there and watched the old boat pull away from the quay. “Please! For pity's sake, come back. You have to take us with you!”

But the skipper paid them no heed. He turned away and swung the wheel to point the old trawler toward the sea.

Holly dropped to her knees, her head buried in her hands, and Rowan turned back toward the locals who had by now reached the quay.

He fired off two more shots, by chance taking out three of the locals with a ricochet; then the amber light started flashing, signalling that the weapon was empty.

And still the locals were steadily advancing on them.

Rowan turned away. He went over to Holly and fell to his knees beside her, to give her a last hug. What else could he do in a moment like this?

“Do you remember the promise you made?” Holly asked him, brushing her hair back and wiping the tears from her eyes.

Rowan remembered all too well.

“Let me hear you say it,” she insisted, beads of perspiration forming on her forehead.

Rowan gulped deeply. “You said that if there was no way out, that you would rather die than be taken by the Hive,” he confirmed.

Holly clutched tight hold of his hand. “Then do it, Rowan. Do it now, and for pity's sake, be quick about it.”

Rowan just sat there, his head buried in his hand.

“You promised me, Rowan,” Holly pleaded, snatching his hand away and forcing him to look her in the eye. “You mustn't go back on your word. Don't worry, beloved, we'll meet again some day when this is all over. With a love like ours, I know we will. Not even death can keep us apart.”

There were tears in Rowan's eyes now. “Please forgive me, Holly,” he cried, as he reached out his large hands to her slender neck.

19. In the nick of time

Just then, Will spotted a rope looped over one of the wooden pilings at the edge of the quay.

He dashed across and peered over the edge.

“This way!” he bellowed and as the others turned their heads, he was already astride the rusty metal ladder and making his descent.

The others needed no further encouragement and they dashed across to see what he'd found.

Down below there was a small rowing boat and the oars were still in the bottom of the boat.

When Will reached the bottom of the ladder, with the others hot on his tail, he caught hold of the loose rope and pulled the boat close to the ladder. Then, clambering aboard the boat, he heaved on the rope to hold it in place whilst the others jumped in.

Will quickly untied the rope and used one of the oars to push them away from the edge of the quay, then he and John hooked the oars over the U-shaped rowlocks and they pulled with all their might while Holly, though still thoroughly dazed, manned the tiller at the back.

More shots rang out now and they involuntarily ducked, but thankfully the locals were not expert shots; and though their progress was slow, they were finally out of range.

There was no way that they could make it back to the east coast, so after some deliberation, they decided that they'd follow the coast south until they could find somewhere out of the way, a beach maybe, where they could haul up the boat and rest. And after that, heavenly only knew where they'd go or what they'd do or what cruel fate might lay in store for them.

“Cheer up,” Rowan consoled Holly, reaching over to tenderly stroke her arm. “We're free and we're going to survive this, and we're going to emerge from the other end all the stronger.”

Holly was still beside herself with grief, however, and if she heard him, then it probably barely registered in her consciousness; though she still might feel it deep down inside.

“I know that it's going to take more than an elastic plaster to fix things, Rowan, but don't worry unduly,” Will advised, holding his oar in the air and momentarily taking a breather from rowing, his shirt drenched in sweat from the tension and the exertion. Will's hand was still red and covered in blood from Jonathan's vicious bite. “You know, love and time are great healers and we have all the love and time in the world.”

“Excuse me,” John butted in. “Now, I don't want to alarm you folk, but I think we're sinking.”

It was then that Rowan noticed the water beginning to accumulate in the bottom of the boat. One of the shots that had been fired must have hit the hull below the waterline. And there wasn't even a stirrup pump on board to help them bail out.

~~~O~~~

The End

The Dissidents: A novella

Sixth edition

By H.M. Forester

Enforcement Officer Kingsley is pretty sure of himself and the Greater Good that the Hive stands for, and he shows no compunction when rooting out the dissidents and having them banged to rights.

But all that changes when he meets Holly Potter, a dissident informant, and he is assigned to work undercover with her, in order to penetrate to the very heart of the dissident movement. What they experience and learn comes at a terrible personal price.

The Dissidents is a dystopian, sci-fi novella of approximately 46,000 words. It is more about people than technology.

Sher Point Publications, UK

http://mystical-faction.blogspot.co.uk/

Table of Contents

Dedication

1. The dawn raid

2. The interrogation

3. The mission

4. AWOL

5. A change of abode

6. The big city

7. Not a wise move

8. Off the beaten track

9. The raid

10. Banged to rights

11. The meaning of love

12. The meet

13. The chippie

14. Bringing up Jonathan

15. A familiar face

16. Widdensborough

17. The Last Chance

18. The last stand

19. In the nick of time