James Craig: What Dies Inside

‘Don’t worry, Ma,’ Carlyle grinned. ‘I don’t think the shoplifters down Shepherd’s Bush Green are going to be any more dangerous than usual.’ Shovelling another spoonful of cereal into his mouth, he pushed away from the table. ‘I’d better get going or I’ll be late for my shift.’ Getting to his feet, he grabbed the copy of Penthouse from the table and beat a hasty retreat.

The tragedy of life is what dies inside a man while he lives.

What rot! Wiping his hands on the knees of his new Marks amp; Spencer suit, Martin Palmer let his gaze slip across his boss’s desk, from the small picture frame containing the ‘motivational’ quote to the plate of biscuits nearby. According to the clock on the wall, he had been sitting here for more than five minutes. That was the thing about the good fellows of Gower Street: even when they panicked, they panicked in slow motion.

Palmer waited patiently for his boss to look up and acknowledge his presence. The young MI5 officer could kill for a Jammie Dodger right now. Three floors below them, where Palmer had his cubbyhole, Edna the tea lady would be doing the rounds with her elevenses trolley. His chums Ryder, Flyte and Marchmain would be busy cleaning the old girl out of her supplies of iced fingers and chocolate tea cakes while discussing last night’s escapades at the Kennington Club and generally ignoring their assignments for the day. Palmer sighed unhappily. His club membership had been stuck in the works now for more than six months and he was beginning to wonder if he had been blackballed. He couldn’t think why, but then again, stranger things had happened.

He was shaken from his reverie by the shrill, insistent ring of the phone on Commander Timothy Sorensen’s desk. Looking up, the Commander glared at Palmer, as if the call was his fault, before picking up the receiver.

‘Sorensen here.’

Palmer stared at his belly while the Commander nibbled on a gingersnap as he listened intently to an extended monologue from whoever was on the other end of the line. After a few moments, Palmer let his gaze lift to a copy of Bernard Safran’s 1953 portrait of the Queen that hung on the wall, next to a map of the British Empire circa 1920-something. He guessed that Her Majesty must have been in her late twenties when she sat for that picture. Something like that. Not a bad-looking girl back then, Palmer mused. But not really his type. He liked them older; a lot older.

‘I really don’t think that-’ Sorensen said finally, before being quickly cut off by the caller. ‘Yes, well. We’ll have to see what we could do about that.’ Looking up, he eyed Palmer with some distaste. ‘He’s here now. I was just about to brief him. Fine. Of course. Yes, sir. Jolly good. That is received and understood. Will do.’ Placing the receiver back on its cradle, he returned to his paperwork without another word.

Palmer felt a wave of despair wash over him. The timing of this meeting could hardly be worse. Granted, everyone was in a right old flap this morning, what with the bloody Paddys almost blowing the PM to Kingdom Come. But even so, a boy’s tea-break was sacred, surely? It was almost two hours since he’d enjoyed his post-breakfast snack — a bacon sandwich from the greasy spoon cafe on Store Street — and he was beginning to feel more than a little weak with hunger. By the time he made it back downstairs, Edna would be long gone and all sources of sustenance denied him until the canteen opened at 12.30.

Finally looking up from his report, Sorensen placed the remains of his gingersnap onto his saucer, next to his teacup. He was a small man, in his late fifties, a thirty-year veteran of the security service. Sorensen had become Palmer’s immediate boss in the wake of the latter’s triumphant return from Yorkshire during the mining strike, waging covert warfare against union operatives who had been dubbed ‘the enemy within’ by the PM herself. From being a nondescript analyst toiling away in the bowels of HQ, Palmer was now being fast-tracked as a management trainee. Life was good.

Until now.

‘No breakfast today?’ With his thinning hair slicked back over his scalp with an excess of Brylcreem and his thick NHS-frame glasses, Sorensen reminded Palmer of his grandfather.

‘No, sir,’ Palmer lied, playing with the knot of his tie. ‘It has been a really very busy morning.’

‘Quite.’ Sorensen gestured towards the plate with his finger. ‘Help yourself.’

‘Thank you, sir.’ Leaning forward, Palmer took a couple of chocolate digestives, slipping each one into his mouth in quick succession.

‘Now look here, Palmer,’ said Sorensen, closing the file and retreating into the gloom behind his desk. ‘There is quite a situation going on here.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Palmer licked crumbs from around his lips.

‘As you can imagine,’ Sorensen continued, bringing his hands together as if in prayer, ‘the last few hours have seen frantic activity. No one could have imagined that the damn Republicans could have got so close to the Prime Minister.’

‘No.’

‘Various Cabinet ministers are in hospital, for God’s sake.’ The Commander shook his head. ‘The show must go on, of course.’

‘Of course,’ Palmer nodded vigorously.

‘Mrs Thatcher has already stood up at the Party conference and delivered her “no surrender” speech. In the meantime, Special Branch has been busy arresting every bloody Irishman they can lay their hands on.’

‘Good.’

‘The perpetrators have already been locked up — most of them, at least.’

Nodding again, Palmer reached for another biscuit, thinking better of it when he saw the scowl that passed across Sorensen’s face.

‘However,’ his boss went on, ‘while Special Branch have been making hay, questions have been asked about us.’

‘Oh?’

Sorensen looked pained as he said, ‘People are already asking whether MI5 shouldn’t have done more to prevent this outrage from happening in the first place.’

Not unreasonable, Palmer thought, under the circumstances.

‘Which was why I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind giving me an update on Gerald Durkan?’

‘Ah, yes.’ Palmer shifted in his seat. Gerry bloody Durkan. IRA bomber turned MI5 informant; the key ‘asset’ under the management of the rising star of the service. For the last two months, it had been Palmer’s job to meet up with Durkan in various grubby West London pubs, tentatively sipping pints of rancid lager while handing over cash in exchange for snippets of intelligence about Republican activity in London. In retrospect, it was obvious why Sorensen had dragged him in here this morning. Grimacing, Palmer cursed himself for obsessing about food when he should have been getting his story straight.

Sorensen eyed his young colleague carefully. ‘I don’t suppose he ever mentioned anything about a Brighton bomb?’

‘No,’ Palmer said. ‘I think I would have remembered that.’

‘Ye-es,’ Sorensen sighed. ‘When did you last meet him?’

‘Well, erm,’ Palmer scratched his head, ‘as you will have seen from my most recent report, we have not had any actual direct contact with Durkan for a few weeks now.’

Sorensen tapped the file on his desk angrily with his index finger. ‘It says here that there has been only one telephone conversation in the last month.’

‘Well, yes.’

‘And?’

Palmer frowned. ‘And what?’

‘What did you talk about?’

‘Nothing much,’ the agent admitted. ‘Gerry said things were fairly quiet. As I recall, he didn’t even chase me for any money, which was unusual.’

‘But you didn’t think anything of it?’