Guy Adams - The Clown Service

If only she were to look around her she would see that this is happening all over the cemetery – splintered stumps of hands, worn down by their work, reaching for the light. But she doesn’t. Her eyes remain fixed on this one grave.

Cathy steps beneath the shadow of the pine tree and the figure begins to turn towards her. It is not sitting in a neatly-excavated hole; it is writhing in a mess of disturbed earth. She is reminded of an old cowboy picture she watched with her father when she was a child, the hero sinking into a patch of quicksand, his friends trying to feed a rope to him so they can pull him free.

‘Are you all right?’ Cathy asks, the first question that pops into her head.

The figure is now looking at her. Cathy’s second question goes unvoiced. ‘ His face, what’s wrong with his face? ’. She is too busy screaming.

c) Section 37, Wood Green, London

April Shining is furious enough to kill. Not an unusual state of being for her, however much she might affect an attitude of carelessness, the people around her frequently drive her mad.

‘Douglas,’ she shouts into the mouthpiece of the phone, ‘if you patronise me one more time I will drive that voter-paid-for BMW of yours right into the front of your taxpayer-funded house. I am not in the habit of wasting your time with rubbish. If I tell you that you’re facing an emergency then you most certainly are.’

A monotone dribbles out of the earpiece in response, the sort of aggressively calm speech that fuels all the best arguments in the House of Lords.

‘Oh piss off!’ she shouts and cuts off the call with a thumb stabbed so viciously it nearly forces the rubber button irretrievably into the phone housing.

Her attempts to mobilise a response to the threat of Operation Black Earth have not been successful. She has warned, begged and bribed but nobody wants to know.

‘The thinking on the Harry Reid case,’ one of her contacts at the Met has explained, ‘is that it must be some form of hoax.’

The evidence against such a pointless theory is substantial and convincing, but she has no time to offer it before the call is cut off.

She needs to get off the phone and start bullying people in person. To hell with phones. No one ignores April Shining.

d) Cornwell’s Club, Mayfair, London

‘Sir Robin?’

The jelly-like civil-servant quivers into life from the stupor brought on by his perusal of The Times and looks up at the man addressing him. He is a young man, smartly dressed but in a manner that suggests a nightclub rather than Cornwell’s. The club has thrived for over one hundred years by providing a warm place for gentlemen of secrets to sink into leather armchairs. It is like a well-maintained greenhouse, built for the cultivation of decadent begonias. It has a set of rules so long and complex it is said the main proof of being worthy of club membership is to be capable of understanding them. If Sir Robin had his way, one of those rules would ban the heliotrope tie this man is wearing. A pity he is no longer on the committee.

‘Do I know you?’ he asks.

‘We’ve never met,’ the man replies, taking a seat next to Sir Robin, ‘though I’ve been aware of you for some time, and we have a mutual acquaintance in August Shining.’

The mention of that name is never likely to improve Sir Robin’s mood and it doesn’t do so now. He looks around for his glass of brandy, determined to wash away the foul taste this fellow has just dumped upon his palate. ‘You’re one of his lot are you?’ he asks, abandoning the search for his drink and waving at a waiter for another one.

‘No,’ the young man replies, ‘he is merely an acquaintance. I have had certain dealings with him over the years. Not always favourable dealings – if that helps?’

Naturally it does. If there is one man Sir Robin truly detests, it’s August Shining.

‘Can’t stand the old shit,’ he says. He has managed to secure the attention of a waiter and gleefully orders himself a brandy, deliberately extending no hospitality to his visitor.

‘I had heard as much,’ the young man says, ‘which is why I thought it worth having a quick word. The country is about to experience a potentially catastrophic emergency.’

‘So people tell me every day,’ interrupts Sir Robin. ‘If you expect me to believe your word above the others, you’ll have to provide compelling evidence.’

‘I take it you’ve heard about Harry Reid?’

‘Name means nothing.’

‘Oh, I’m sure you’ve heard about him. Died fifty years ago and yet managed to commit an act of murder yesterday morning.’

‘You sound like that idiot Shining.’

‘Good, you have heard about it, I was sure you must have done.’

Sir Robin is slightly thrown by this.

‘You will receive a phone call in a few minutes,’ the young man continues. ‘It will concern Harry Reid and throw some rather worrying new light on matters.’

‘What sort of light?’

‘He is not an isolated case. You’re about to be inundated by them. The phone call will mention two others, a woman in Fulham and a child in Sussex. I mention this only to lend a little credence to my information. Shining’s sister is trying to convince people that this is all linked to an old case. She is quite right, though nobody is willing to listen to her at the moment.’

‘Not surprised. Mouthy little sow is almost worse than her brother.’

‘Nonetheless, someone should listen to her because the right person, acting now , might just turn the tide on this affair before it gets out of control.’

‘Sounds like a load of old bunkum to me. You sure Shining didn’t put you up to this?’

‘Shining is in no position to do anything at the moment, which is precisely why he has his sister doing all the heavy lifting.’

Sir Robin’s brandy arrives, allowing him the opportunity to think while he takes the glass, sniffs it and pours half of it into his capacious mouth.

‘If this is all on the level, why are you coming to me and not acting on it yourself? For that matter, which department are you with?’

‘I didn’t say and I don’t intend to. Obviously, if I were able to act openly in this I would. Someone’s going to come out of the whole mess smelling of roses. And given half a chance I would rather that was me than you.’

Of course this hooks Sir Robin; the thought of accolades always does it.

‘And should I become involved, what are you suggesting I do?’

‘I would suggest you get an emergency committee together, mobilise armed forces and, above all, prepare a press statement about how the whole affair is well under control. The last thing you need is for the country to be seen as a risk to the rest of the world.’

‘I don’t follow.’

‘You are about to become ground zero, Sir Robin. Just think how that might make other countries feel. Indeed, what might they do to ensure the devastation doesn’t spread to them?’

Sir Robin scoffs. ‘Now I know this is a load of old tosh, I think you’re—’

The young man stands up. ‘Very well, I’ll take it to someone else. Just don’t start whining in a few hours time when you’re caught with your trousers around your ankles.’

‘Hey, hey…’ Unsettled by the impressive resoluteness of the man, Sir Robin decides he’s played his hand too aggressively. ‘No need to be like that. I’m not saying I’m not available to help. What is it you want in return? You don’t come to me with something like this unless you’re after a favour.’

The young man smiles. ‘Actually, you’re quite right. I am all about favours. Let’s just say you’ll owe me one.’

With that, he walks out of the club and into Mayfair.