Chapter 30 in the serialisation of the book 'Insurrection' 4th book in the 'Corpalism' series

30

Those who make peaceful revolution impossible
will make violent revolution inevitable.
John F. Kennedy

The communal lounge was silent; the first row had shrunk back, uncertainty etched on their faces. Ron, for one, was wishing he was anywhere else and was looking round frantically for an escape route. He caught Wilf’s eye, saw the withering contempt, and he shrivelled into his seat. In return for a promise to cooperate, Mackie had settled Bob more comfortably, one wrist tied to the chair, allowing him freedom to express himself and relief to anguished shoulders. It had done nothing for his overall mood however.

"You’ll get nothing from me,” Bob protested, “I wouldn't help these old fools if it was the last thing I could do on this earth."

“Where’s the harm?” said Mackie, “What can these old fools, as you call them, possibly do?”

“Less of the old,” said Fiona, sharply, with a toss of her head. The words sounded loud in the room.

“And less of the fools,” added Dora, emboldened by Fiona, but not sufficiently to say it in much more than a whisper.

“Come on, Bob,” said Mackie, “I could tell them but I thought it would be better coming from the horse’s mouth, so as to speak, more believable. I want to discourage them from making a mistake.”

“We aren’t making any mistakes,” said Wilf, up till then content to listen, but now irritated by the whole tone, “and we don’t need your help.”

“Yes, that’s right,” said Pete, wanting to show Fiona he too was brave enough to speak, although if she’d seen how his knees were shaking she would have been less impressed.

“I’d like to hear what Bob has to say,” said Mags, which was true, there were certain gaps in her knowledge that she hoped to fill tonight.

There was an uneasy silence, then Alb added his support, “I would as well, we’re here, what can it hurt?”

Mackie poured another Scotch and placed it on the table in front of Bob. He grabbed the glass and downed it in one, “Another.”

“Say 'please',” Fiona had spoken before she knew the word was out of her mouth.

Bob flicked her a nasty look and waited as Mackie refilled his glass, he took a sip this time and placed it on the table.

"I want to go to the toilet," Mort announced. Nobby stood up and moved swiftly to his side, knowing there was often a short window of opportunity between word and deed.

Mags moved closer to Mackie and whispered in his ear, those nearest could make out the words ‘comfort break'.

His eyebrows met in a huge frown and he looked as if he was about to argue then he relented. In actual fact he’d been needing relief for the past hour but had been fighting it. At her words the need rose again and he gruffly agreed that people leave in pairs as long as he was among the first.

He handed the policing of Bob over to Alb and walked swiftly through the chairs, heading for the visitor's toilets he'd noted on the way in, following in Mort and Nobby's wake. Wilf got up and followed him; that created a mass exodus.

It was a good half an hour before the room had re-settled. Bob had helped himself to a few more whiskies in that time and was looking considerably more relaxed.

Mackie noted the mood change and pressed the advantage, “Come on Bob,” then, with a nod to Alb, “as he said, what can it hurt?”

Bob stared at him, the whiskey had done nothing to alleviate his cold dislike of the man interrogating him. Then he looked out at his audience, a rag tag group of complacent, comfortable old folk whose little world he could rock if he wanted to. He sighed deeply; he'd been blown. If Mackie knew he’d been putting out feelers then his own people would know. There'd be a hit on him, sooner rather than later. He dropped his head onto his chest. The silence stretched. Everyone in the room was waiting on his decision; truth be told, he was enjoying the feeling.

Val could wait no longer, “What’s it going to be then, Bob?” She was a bit shocked by her own temerity; she’d addressed the prisoner directly. She hoped it had not gone unnoticed by Alb.

Bob lifted his head and sat back in his chair, eyebrows raised, “Well sister – it’s right what Mackie says; I’m as good as dead. So I have nothing to lose. Hell it might even be fun. I’m kinda proud of my work and I never get any recognition for it.” Mackie grinned, sensing capitulation, then Bob added, “But I wish I could be around when they work out it was you.”

Unperturbed Mackie retorted, “I’ll take my chances, Bob, just tell these old folks what’s really going on in the world. I can guarantee they’ll be impressed with what you have to say.”

“Untie me?” said Bob, pulling at the one wrist still attached to the chair, with little real hope of success in the appeal.

Mackie shook his head, “Start with Wilson,” he ordered.

“Woodrow Wilson?” said Jonesey.

“Harold Wilson, I’ll bet” said Sticky.

“The very same,” said Mackie.

“Bloody commie,” hissed Bill.

Bob grinned from ear to ear, “I love it when a plan comes together.”

“Wilson was never a commie,” said Mackie.

“See,” said Ron, losing his fear in the need to have a dig at Bill.

“I knew he wasn’t as well,” said Dora.

“I did that,” said Bob, losing the details of an entire team working with him, to take the kudos all to himself, “planted everything, did everything to discredit him, ruin the man.”

“But why?” demanded Dora.

“It was either that or kill him,” said Bob. He was clearly enjoying himself now, the pain he’d been experiencing with his arms tied behind his back fading to a minor discomfort. The freedom to wave one arm about was intoxicating.

“Kill him?” gasped Dora, clutching Esmé’s arm in her distress.

“You can’t meddle in our internal politics,” said Sticky, “besides, we were allies.”

Bob laughed, “Jeez, you Brits really bought that crap?” He laughed again and Mags decided that she disliked him intensely; she found herself accepting happily Mackie’s stated intent to do away with him at the end of the session.

“There’s no need to scoff, young man,” Cynthia’s dislike seemed a match for Mags’, “we are a friendly people and trusting with it.”

Bob ignored her, directing his scorn back at Sticky. “Listen bud, we've been here running the show for your people for decades. Hell we've eliminated every leftie trouble maker that's popped up and you've all been none the wiser.”

“What’re you talking about,” demanded Gerry, "Who have you eliminated? And how?"

"Hah," said Bob, getting into his stride, "The ‘who’ isn't hard to work out or the ‘how’ for that matter. Heck, don't you guys find it odd that some really influential people keep dying? Jeez?"

"Like whom?" nothing but chapter and verse would satisfy Esmé.

"Doesn't matter who," said Bob, thinking ‘whom?’ "but come on, I mean, do you really believe that so many key people on the left can die of heart attacks, strokes or best yet, hypothermia?"

"What about Lady Di?" asked Esmé, fidgeting in her seat.

“Look, just take it from me, ok, we were never your allies,” he was getting frustrated; the inability to respond to the urge to throw both his hands in the air was causing him some irritation, “Christ, don’t you people know anything?”

They all stared at him. Apart for Mackie and Mags, it was clear none of them had a clue what he was talking about.

“Listen,” said Bob, recognizing belatedly that he would have to start with the basics, “the greatest threat to American world domination has always been Britain.”

“Britain a threat? What about the Russians?” demanded Gerry, a deep frown creasing his forehead. He threw a quick glance at Alb, comforted to see his own disbelief mirrored there.

“The Russians were never really a problem,” said Bob.

“But their nuclear arsenal?” pressed Nobby. The more Bob said the more tensed up Nobby became. There was no doubt he was feeling an affinity with the prisoner, the shared American blood was causing conflict within him.

“Yeah, some arsenal,” Bob scoffed, “besides they were never going to fire them. If they did we’d let fly ourselves.”

“MAD,” said Ron.

“Yes it most certainly is,” said Dora, her head going up and down with the words.

“He means Mutually Assured Destruction,” said Alb, his voice muted, uncharacteristically out of his depth.

“Actually,” said Mackie, “none of this is relevant, Bob's just playing you.”

“What do you mean?” demanded Nobby.

“He’s talking nations,” said Mackie, “it’s not about nations, although they are used to achieve the ultimate goals. I think we should start further back, say with May ’54.”

The only thing ‘54 signified to the old soldiers in the room was the end of the Korean War, but that was March not May so it was left to Val to ask, “May ’54? What happened in May ‘54?”

“The birth of the New World Order,” said Mackie nonchalantly.

“The new world what?” said Mort. He’d dozed despite all his efforts to stay awake, and struggling up out of his seat, he tried to get a grip on what was happening.

“Don’t worry,” Lenny shushed him gently, patting him till he sank back down and relaxed.

“The New World Order,” said Bob, “Hah! Funny.”

“Not actually that funny,” said Mackie.

“Why’re you so high and mighty?” demanded Bob, “you’re as dirty as me.” Mackie raised an eyebrow and took another sip of his Scotch. “Ah,” Bob said, seeing an opportunity to sow unrest, “didn’t tell you all his little secrets, did he, Margo.”

“Don't be so familiar,” said Mags, “you don’t know me.”

"Ah but I do," said Bob, with an unpleasant leer, "not quite in the biblical sense, but almost.”

Gerry struggled to his feet, but relented when Alb pulled at his arm, with a hissed, “leave it, not the place or time.”

"What does that mean?" demanded Mags, surging out of her seat, a blush spreading upwards from her ample bosom.

“Bob - continue with the story, but from ’54,” murmured Mackie, obviously uncomfortable.

"I want to know what he means." She was indignant, oblivious of anything but the two men in front of her.

Val nudged Vera, her face alight with interest at the potential for a salacious exposé.

"The winter of '77," said Bob, clearly enjoying himself, "Palm Springs. It was real nice of you guys to play away in my back yard."

"Mackie? Did you know about this?" Mags was smouldering, Gerry had never seen her look so attractive.

"Bob did bring it to my attention one time when he wanted a favour.” He moved to stand between her and the grinning Bob, “I'm sorry, Margo, I didn’t think he’d mention it."

"You sure had a nice body in those days, Margo,” Bob’s grin had reached face stretching proportions. Gerry made to rise again but Alb had him tethered.

She wanted to slap the smirk off his face but instead she retorted, "I'll have you know, I still have, thank you." Then she flushed bright red and sat down.

“’54 please Bob," said Mackie.

“’54? You were there, you could tell them about that.”

“I know,” said Mackie, “but I was just a foot soldier, you were further up the food chain.”

“And what if I don’t feel like it?”

“Just tell them,” said Mackie. He moved to where his coat was folded over the back of a chair, and proceeded to remove a small cloth roll up bag from the pocket.

“What’s that?” asked Fiona, her voice shrill with concern.

“Persuasion,” said Gerry, his voice grim, still restrained by Alb, his eyes betraying his wish to be the one dispensing it.

Mackie took another sip of his Scotch.

“You’re not going to torture him, are you?” Fiona was horrified.

Cynthia gasped and prodded Wilf who was sat alongside her, his eyes alive with anticipation, “Do something,” she hissed.

“Yeah, do something, you useless fuckers,” Bob was too anxious to be subtle, “He’s gonna torture me, and you gotta stop him.”

“Let him play it out,” whispered Sticky in Tom’s ear, “he’ll break quick enough, he’s a desk jockey, never been in the field.” Tom was shaking his head, no words available to him.

The room felt silent, hushed, as they all watched with an awful sense of inevitability. Not one of them was strong enough to intervene alone and for some reason none of them felt enough for Bob to rally together. Cynthia and Esmé were huddled closely together, aghast.

Mackie untied a small knot and unrolled the cloth bag revealing the small wooden handles of several unidentifiable tools. He was whistling under his breath, a tune no-one recognized.

Bob cried out, directing his gaze at Fiona, half out of her chair with worry, “Don’t let him torture me, you desiccated crone.”

She sank back into her chair and dusted off her hands, leaving him to his fate.

“From ’54 Bob,” said Mackie, selecting a small but seriously sharp instrument from the array before him.

Bob weighed up his options, they weren’t great and he knew it; for one thing this roomful of old biddies was not going to intervene on his behalf. If he held out Mackie would torture him and he’d talk. Then Mackie would kill him. If he told all he knew without being forced into it, Mackie would kill him. Whichever way you cut it he was going to die, it was just a question of how painful his last few hours on earth would be. His shoulders slumped with the whistle of air he let loose.

“I knew you’d see it my way,” said Mackie, putting the instrument back with its companions, still within easy reach, “right, now…from ‘54” 

Cheers for reading

Arun








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