Chapter Twenty-one

At 8:30, I make my way to West Mews. I leave Amelia in the apartment, telling her not to answer the door under any circumstances. I dress myself simply and stylishly. No lavish jewels for me today; I am all respectability today. I ask the driver to drop me off at the long driveway. It’s raining. Perfect. I can pretend to be the soaked damsel in distress. I watch the driver leave, shaking his head at my bizarre behaviour. I stand in the heavy rain for several minutes, waiting for it to soak my clothes and ruin my hair. I look at my reflection in the dark window of one of the other houses. I look perfectly wretched.

I make my way slowly up the drive, ensuring I look as much like a drowned rat as possible. Once I reach the front door, I knock several times before a startled servant answers it, shocked to see a respectable young woman on the doorstep at this time of night.

“Is Mr Church at home?” I ask gasping through the cold, penetrating rain.

“Yes, Miss.” He says, “Is he expecting you?”

“No. But tell him Miss Hitches is here.”

“Would you like to freshen up first?”

“No thank you.” I say, knowing that I will appeal to the man’s protective nature more if he sees me soaking wet and shivering.

I’m led through to a large sitting room with a roaring fire. I stand next to it, wringing out my clothes to create a more desperate appearance. I turn around as the door opens.

“Miss Hitches?” Hugh Church says as he enters the room, “What brings you here?”

“Well,” I say, “I was in the neighbourhood when it started raining and this was the first place I thought of.”

“Did no one offer you clean clothes?” He asks, eying my sodden attire concernedly.

“I’m fine.” I say, waving his concern away airily.

“Are you sure.”

I nod and sit down in a chair by the fire. He follows suit.

“So, what brings you to Londonderry?”

“I wanted to learn about the government.” I say, deciding I should at least pretend to be honest from the word go.

“Is the country not exciting enough for you then?” He asks, eying me with barely concealed amusement.

“Well, you see, I’m tired of spending my days drinking champagne.” I tell him, my hair dripping onto the expensively upholstered chair. “I want to change the world.” I say.

“Do you now?” He asks, raising his eyebrows slightly, “And why would a privileged girl like you want to do that?”

“Well, you see, I’m tired of seeing people starving in the streets. I want to help them.” I say simply.

“And how do you propose to do that?”

“Well, I was rather hoping that you’d help me there.” I say, fluttering my eyelashes.

“Oho?”

“You see,” I explain, “I thought that you, with all your experience and expertise, could help me by teaching me about how the government works.” He smiles at my flattery.

“Well, what do you want to know?” He asks.

“Everything.” I breathe, smiling foolishly.

“Well, here in England, our method of government has changed. There was once a time where the entire population voted on matters and elected the leader of the government. They would choose a party according to which parties policies were the most relevant to the situation of the time. However, after the wars which ravaged this country in 2300, it was decided that the ordinary people weren’t knowledgeable enough to elect their own leaders. You see, they elected corrupt men and women who killed all those who stood in their way. It was decided that a council of twelve would run the country for them, deciding on policies amongst themselves. When a member left, either by choice or due to death, a new member was elected by the remaining member of the council. There is no leader, only twelve people who rule the country. Each of us has our own area to govern. For example, I govern the area our ancients called Yorkshire. I prevent uprisings and deal with disputes.”

“So how did the new government come into power then?” I ask although I already know the real answer; by brute force.

“Well, in 2550, a corrupt government was in place. They ruled with their own interests at heart. They didn’t think of the ordinary people and so a rival group was formed. They took control of various towns and cities. The ordinary people requested that they liberate them from the clutches of the corrupt government and the group was only too glad to comply. The corrupt government surrendered and the new government took over. They are still ruling wisely today.”

I choke back my story; the story I know to be true. The government did not take control using their words; they murdered and blackmailed their way into power with no concern for the people they harmed on their way. Mr Church probably took part in it. I despise him.

“Were you a member of the original group?” I ask curiously, ensuring that my face remains neutral. It wouldn’t do for him to find out how much I despise him.

“Yes, I was.” He says proudly. “I suffered much at the hands of the previous government. I was only too glad to rid the country of them.”

“What happened to the old government?” I ask, swallowing my disdain.

“Most fled abroad but the instigators of the corruption were caught and executed.”

“Does the government have the power to execute people?” I ask.

“Yes.” He says.

“For what?”

“A variety of things,” He says, “Such as spying and murder.”

“Are they tried beforehand?” I ask, fighting to keep the fear out of my voice. If they find out what I am, they will kill me. That is, if the Occidere, Occidi don’t get to me first.

“Yes, by the council of twelve. “He says, “Why are you so interested in our death penalty laws?”

“Oh,” I say airily, “I was just wondering how they differ from our laws back in America.”

“Of course. I forget you are not English.”

I look out of the window. It’s stopped raining.

“Thank you for your hospitality.” I say, getting to my feet.

“Will you come again?” He asks.

“Of course, I am eager to share your wisdom.”

He smiles. “I’ll have my driver take you home.”

I smile and mutter my thanks before getting in his car and allowing myself to be driven home.

As soon as I get open the door to my apartment, I hunt for a piece of paper and a pen and begin to write down everything Mr Church said. I record the lies he told about how his beloved government came to power. He thinks I wasn’t born here so I don’t know the full horrors of his governments murky past. Well I do! I was born in England. I watched my family die at the hands of the government’s thugs. I watched them burn down the village. I watched as they sat by and watched me starve. I watched them make their way through the city streets on their way to lavish streets whilst I scavenged in bins for food. I saw the way they tightened their hold on the country. I saw their corruption. I saw their greed. I experienced their neglect. I experienced their cruelty. No, they did not tear down the previous government for the good of the people; they did it for the good of themselves. They are not selfless. They are not good. They are heartless and cruel. They are without feeling or conscience. They are without forgiveness. I despise them. I condemn them. I will never forgive them.

However, I keep my personal opinions out of my report and I report only the facts or rather the lies. I make sure it’s toneless and devoid of all emotion. For all they know, it could have been written by a robot.

Once I’m finished, I go out into the corridor and place the papers under the loosened floorboards. Despite the instructions not to do so, I wait by the door for any sound of movement. I look at my watch. It’s 10:01. Amelia goes to bed in the spare room at half ten but I remain by the door, keeping watch.

I get up several times to make more coffee. I must stay awake. I force myself to remember my training. I must never fall asleep on a job. I must stay awake. I pinch myself as I feel my eyes closing. The pain keeps me awake. I look at my watch. It’s 11:47. Thirteen minutes to go. I sip my coffee. I listen. I wait. The apartment’s silent. I wait.

Suddenly, the sound of someone moving out in the corridor cuts through the still night air like a knife. I leap up and throw the door open. A tall thin person dressed in black crouches over the floorboard, extracting my papers. I pounce. They swear.

“Who are you?” I demand, pinning them to the floor.

“Nobody.” I hear them mutter.

“Who are you?” I ask again. They don’t say anything. I twist their arm behind their back. They swear. “Who do you work for?” I demand. They say nothing. I twist again. Their moans fill the air. “Who are you?” They say nothing. I twist again.

“Fine,” They say, gasping for breath, “My name is Beatrice, Beatrice Jones.”

I drop her arm immediately. Could it be the Beatrice who was at the cottage? She leaps up, gathering the papers in her arms and sprints down the corridor. I could probably follow her but I don’t want to. I know her name now. That’s enough to prove to me that the organisation is real.

“Elizabeth,” A tentative voice says as I re-enter the apartment, “Are you alright?” It’s Elizabeth. She must have heard the noises in the corridor.

“I’m fine,” I say airily, “I’m just a little tired.”

She isn’t convinced but she doesn’t say anything. I throw myself on my bed and sleep before I have to get up and meet the detestable Mr Church again tomorrow.