"The Red Tie" - 8
Weekly serialisation of my short dystopian thriller.
Beyond the Ministry’s light and airy public spaces, the building is rapidly transformed into a rabbit warren of passageways and rooms; the further you are from the main atrium, the smaller the spaces become. Towards the rear of the building, at the end of a narrow and nondescript first floor corridor, a fire-door opens out onto a metal stairway which leads down to a small private carpark.
Although it is uncommon for the building to be occupied at the weekend (except for the twenty-four hour service and security functions) this Sunday afternoon the lights are burning inside 1.51, the last room before the fire escape. A point for emergency egress, on this occasion it has been unlocked and used as a point of entry. At the foot of the steps, two cars wait in the early evening darkness.
Four people sit around the room’s rectangular meeting table. On one side are two men — one bearded and clearly senior to his clean-shaven colleague both in terms of age and rank — and opposite them two slightly younger women. There is a similar age difference between the men and the women, perhaps ten or fifteen years. The older of the women is Verna.
“He said nothing useful?” The bearded man asks his younger male counterpart.
“Nothing of any real value, no. You must understand — as I know you do — at that stage he would have said absolutely anything in order to save himself; confessed to anything; implicated anyone. In the final interview he was raving really. That and bursting into tears.”
The older man looks toward Verna. “Does that sound about right?”
“Yes — except the crying part.” Verna glances down at the table as if she is expecting to find some papers there to which she can refer, something she has brought from her office perhaps. But the table-top is bare. “He was talking all the time. Couldn’t help himself. Liked the sound of his own voice I suppose.”
“A distraction tactic,” the younger man suggests. “Common enough practice. Gives the notion that you’re not particularly competent. A disguise to throw you off the scent.”
“And was he?” The older man to Verna again.
“Competent?” she weighs up her answer. “Reasonably so. Or at least, he wasn’t incompetent. His work was of an adequate standard: not particularly quick; reasonably accurate.”
“There would have been an instance or other — presumably triggered by a check of some sort — which led to him being moved him out of fiction.”
Verna nods. “I know you’ve read the reports; that you’re familiar with the case. After all, getting approval…”
“Certainly.” The younger man butts in. “Yet it was a long process in the end, wasn’t it? Nearly two years. Enough time to act on suspicions.”
“Or for suspicions to be confirmed,” suggests the senior man. He stands and walks to the small window where he pauses, runs his fingers across his beard, and looks down into the carpark. “No-one is suggesting you have done anything wrong, Verna.” He turns and smiles. He is close enough to put a reassuring hand on her shoulder, though he does not. “In fact the opposite. You gave him plenty of time to get comfortable, confident; for him to think he was safe; for evidence to be compiled.”
“Do you think it is inconclusive?”
The other three look at the younger man; the tension in the room increases a notch. It is as if he is challenging them to denigrate his contribution to their work.
The older man returns to his seat. “I know what you mean, Will. And it’s always difficult isn’t it — unless there are extenuating circumstances. I have read the reports of course, and I would say the case was” — he pauses to find the word he needs — “marginal. As they can be, of course. But then once challenged… Well, he hardly helped himself with his blabbing making it difficult to tell what was true and what not. And we have to recognise that, on occasion, it can be necessary to make — a sacrifice.” Another pause for the mot juste. “For the greater good. For protection. To prove to the people who matter that we’re on top of things; to continue to convince them that the order which governs all our lives is safe and secure with us.” He looks at the other three in turn, almost as if he is asking them to deny what he has said.
“He would have confessed to anything,” Will repeats after a few moments, as if that were the seal on something and the only statement needed to bring the matter to a satisfactory conclusion. Had there been some papers on the table, they might have signed them then and there, confirmed their judgement, set final wheels in motion, then escaped down into the carpark and the early evening.
“And his colleagues?” The bearded man to Verna again. “There is one you’re interested in. One with ‘potential’?”
“Vincent, yes.”
“Did Noah mention him — explicitly, I mean?”
“In the interrogation he mentioned a number of people by name,” Will speaks before Verna is able to, as if trying to impress, “and Vincent was one of them. But there was nothing tangible.”
“Verna?”
“I have to say that he never talked to me about anyone other than himself. Of course, when we had departmental moves and things like that he might make a comment; lots of people did. And when Vincent took over from him in fiction there would have been the odd conversation about how he was getting on — Vincent, I mean. But Noah was always focussed on himself.”
“The self-centred can be the most dangerous,” Will volunteers. “There is no greater cause than themselves.”
“Or no better disguise,” the older man suggests. He pauses, his eyes on Will for a heartbeat longer than necessary. “And from what you say, Vincent is an almost exact opposite: quiet, thorough, diligent. In some respects an exemplary employee.”
“In many respects, undoubtedly.”
“Yet there’s a trace of doubt in your voice, Verna.”
Looking down to where her hands rest on the table, Verna wishes she had something for her fingers to be busy with, or a pen with which to take notes — even though she knows note-taking in sessions such as this is not permitted.
“It’s difficult to say exactly why — especially with someone who is so naturally quiet and reserved. But I have been getting an increasing sense of disquiet from him, as if there is something bothering him or bubbling away beneath the surface, whether he realises it or not. It was one of the reasons I spoke individually to him about Noah.”
“You wanted to test his reaction?” Will voices his approval, offers a slight nod.
“And?”
“He seemed shocked. Just what you would expect when you discover a colleague has been found to be… I’m never sure of the appropriate word these days.” It is a statement accompanied by a nervous laugh.
The senior man nods. “Of course. But there was nothing in Vincent’s shock to suggest that he was aware of what Noah was alleged to be engaged in? No sign of a guard slipping?”
“Nothing.”
“Which could mean a number of things of course; anything from extreme guilt to extreme innocence. The potential for action, or the certainty of inaction.” He turns to the younger woman. “What else do we know?”
“Exactly as Verna says: he’s a quiet, reserved person; lives alone in a small house; no evidence of a significant other — at least not in the recent past. He likes his routine; doesn’t have any obvious interests outside of work — which he clearly takes pride in, and for which he was probably always going to be a good fit.”
The older man acknowledges something unspoken. “And the Ministry? What does he think about us?”
“That’s harder to say, don’t you think, Verna?” A nod of confirmation. “He appears to understand his purpose, what the department is trying to do. As I say, I think he’s a creature of habit, uncomfortable with change.”
“Verna?”
“I’d agree with all that. I’ve never had any significant sense of resentment.”
“Though there is one small thing.” The other three turn to the younger woman again. “He wanted to buy a tie the other day — one that wasn’t blue — and was unable to find one. That surprised him, I think; knocked him back a little bit. Change, like I said. And the prices of boots. The fact that they have gone up so much. He knows the Ministry is responsible, but…”
“Such minor things!” Will laughs. “Surely not enough to use as evidence for of leaning one way or the other.”
“You’d be surprised how large and fast a tree can grow from even the smallest acorns, Will.”
*
They were back on the same park bench a week later.
“So you’re seriously thinking about applying for the controllers’ department?”
“I’m interested, yes.”
Marcus smiled. “And what is it that appeals to you?”
“The type of work.” Vincent paused for a moment. “I’m quite a methodical person; I like detail. Perhaps I have a forensic mind.”
“‘Forensic’; that’s quite a word!” They both laughed. “Anything else apart from the nature of the work? For example, how would you describe your relationship with books and with people?”
“I like books.” Vincent stalled. He had never before considered the possibility of having a ‘relationship’ with anything inanimate. “I have more books than the average person, I suppose — and I doubt I could ever have enough. And I’ve quite eclectic tastes.” He laughed at the vague hollowness of his claims, as if he was trying to impress in an interview. “That makes it sound as if I’ve a huge study at home, but it’s really only a bookcase. And I use the public library a fair bit.”
“Which is all very promising — though you’ll be pleased to know that having a vast private library at home isn’t a prerequisite for the job! The rest of course — having eclectic tastes and so forth — is much more relevant.” Marcus’s smile was intended to be supportive and encouraging. It seemed to be doing its job. “And what about people?”
This was a much harder question to answer. An only child, his parents had not been gregarious and outgoing, so his upbringing had been low-key, modest, almost reclusive.
“I find people a challenge sometimes.” Vincent could see no point in lying, if only because he was sure Marcus had already deconstructed him perfectly adequately. “And I don’t necessarily mean the flesh-and-blood of people.”
“Is there any other kind?”
“I think so, don’t you? The person who sits below the surface or beneath the facade. The private person, the real person with their secrets and beliefs.”
“Their unspoken lives?” Marcus suggested, clearly interested.
“Yes! What a great way to put it, ‘their unspoken lives’…”
“And so books…”
Vincent knew Marcus was leading him on — and he was happy to be led.
“Books speak to that person, not the flesh-and-blood one. I suppose that’s another reason why what you do is interesting to me: to communicate at some vital level.”
“And — if I may be so bold — not merely that, but to communicate what’s important.” Marcus thought for a moment, even though familiar with his theme. “Books talk to the inner person, the secret person; they can make direct contact with all those subterranean feelings and desires you speak of. Books touch us — especially fiction, because through fiction we can live different lives, better lives, lives not limited by how pretty things are or how fast we run or how much we earn.” He stopped himself and smiled apologetically. “Forgive me. I can get carried away.”
“If you were trying to do a sales-job on me then it’s working!”
They both laughed.
Vincent looked out across the park at the people there, walking, talking, holding their children near the edge of the fountain, feeding the fish that swam within its copious — if half-empty — reservoir.
“It is a job with two sides.” Marcus’s voice pulled Vincent back from his consideration of a young mother pushing a buggy. “The first is the technical side. You know, the ‘how’ of the work: how you process the words, check the grammar; how you re-sequence a badly written sentence; how you leave out the irrelevant, or enhance the relevant. These are the skills you can learn through reading, or by being taught.”
“And the other side?”
“Much more nebulous.” Again a pause. “This is the philosophical side, or the political, the emotional — all those things which centre on belief. Not the belief of the writer you understand — all of that is there in their words, the raw material the controller has to work with — but of the controller themselves… You remember what I said last week about deciding what to leave out? That relates exactly to the philosophical. It’s driven by what you believe — because make no mistake Vincent, whether you think you do or not, everyone believes in something.”
“What do you believe in?”
Marcus laughed. “If only it was that easy!” Another break, this time it was Marcus’s turn to look out across the park, to include its visitors in his argument. “All those people have things they believe in, that drive them, that they are prepared to act on in order to protect, or achieve, or deny. And all of those things, that stimuli, is predicated on what I like to call ‘neutrality’. Have you heard the term?”
“No, not in this context. What does it mean?”
“That you are either a neutral person or you are not. And not in terms of yourself — I think we have to assume that everyone is completely biased when it comes to themselves! — but in relation to society, the world around them. Take this park.” He gestured towards the fountain. “There will be those who think this is just ‘a park’; they walk it in, play in it, take it for granted. But there will be others who care about the park; who get upset if they see weeds out of control, or a bench vandalised, or a patch of bare earth where nothing has been planted. Such people are not neutral about the park because they would — theoretically — take action to make it better. And you can use the park as a metaphor for just about anything: our economic system, the local football team, the tram timetable, even the Ministry.”
“The Ministry?”
“And books, Vincent. That’s where belief can find a voice, an outlet; that’s where you can speak to the souls of the people. The people who are not neutral.” Marcus smiled to himself. “There I go, preaching again!”
“But that’s perfect; thank you.” Vincent attempted to conjure a question that would prove he had understood not only what Marcus said but how one might be impacted if you were a controller. “So are you saying that I need to understand whether or not I am ‘neutral’ — and if so, what am I not neutral about? And then, knowing that, come to understand how it might influence my work in the future?”
Marcus stood. “Precisely so. Controller or some other role in some other profession. You may not know it now of course — your neutrality, that is — but it will already be there buried within you, formed by your history and your vision of how the world could be.” He held out his hand which Vincent rose to shake. “Let me know what you decide to do.”
If you are enjoying The Red Tie — and I hope you are! — there will be an opportunity to leave a comment at the end of the final section.
If you can’t wait for the rest of the serialisation, you can buy a discounted copy of the book.