21 Serialisation of the book 'Uprising' 1st book in the 'Corpalism' series - by Arun D Ellis

The Award Ceremony
A man who won't die for something is not fit to live.
Martin Luther King

Clay woke early; he lay still for a few moments and allowed himself the luxury of thinking about Sandra. His thoughts were dark. She’d been a distraction he hadn’t prepared for, a promise of something his life choice didn’t include. He threw aside his bedcovers abruptly, shaking himself out of regret and what might have been into the present and his elected path.

He went into his stretches, enjoying the wake-up call to muscles and brain, then worked through his favourite TKD patterns, and finally executed a simple, fast and fluid routine until he had worked up a light sweat.

He showered long and hard, finishing with the real awakener, the blast of cold water he’d learned to appreciate as a boy. He ate a light breakfast whilst watching key parts of his favourite film, a re-mastered copy of Zulu Dawn .

Finally he put on his dress uniform, taking particular care, and then left for his last journey to Whitehall.

“Ah Clayton,” said Clive Gilbert, assistant to the secretary of Sir Ian Tomlinson, “how’re you, old chap? This is a big day for you, eh?”

Just the person you want to see on your final day on earth; Clay smiled without showing teeth and nodded. He didn’t like Clive, thought him a creep, a chap who’d do anything to get on.

“Listen, I saw Sir Ian earlier,” said Clive.

From this Clay inferred that Clive had been instructed by Sir Ian’s secretary. Clay couldn’t understand why Clive had to be such a pompous arse, nobody expected or believed that Sir Ian would talk to Clive, in fact he probably didn’t even know Clive’s name if he even knew he existed.

“He said that he and Sir Phillip Blackmore had been called away,”

“By Sir Phillip, I think you mean my father,” said Clay tiredly.

“Yes, of course,” said Clive, “Sir Ian and your father have been called away but they will try to make the ceremony.”

“Of course,” said Clay, “matters of state always come first.”

Clay had known his father wouldn’t be there, they had agreed it would be too dangerous and had concocted a fictitious meeting to explain his absence. This meeting would overrun, he would be late leaving and, therefore, late for the ceremony. They had said their goodbyes already.

He made his way to his father’s office and waited until the allotted time for him to leave, then he took the chauffeur driven ride to Buck House. They drove through the iron gates, under the arch and stopped outside the entrance; Clay got out and made his way along the red carpet to the waiting area where he was joined by four burly security guards.

He closed his eyes briefly; preparing mentally for his mission.

He felt a searing pain in his back and fell to the floor.

He tried to get up but his limbs weren’t working, he jerked in spasm, he couldn’t make much out, he just saw feet. As he rolled someone kicked him in the back, then in the stomach. He slowly realised he had been Tasered. He tried to get up and was Tasered again, then someone kicked him in the head and he lost consciousness.



The Spider’s Web

The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men, gang aft agley,
An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain, for promis'd joy!
Robert Burns

Clay sat in the corner of his cell; he was naked, again naked, the wound he’d patched with butterfly plasters had held its own; he had a new cut over his left eye.

He was bruised and bleeding, as well as cold and confused. He kept going over what had happened; going over it again and again. He had been so careful; he had maintained his cover the whole time. He knew Sir Phillip would’ve kept his own counsel. They’d been so careful to keep the details between them; how had they slipped up? What had gone wrong? His mind turned from one thought to another, perhaps they hadn’t slipped up. Perhaps this was something else.

He had to be careful, careful not to say anything. He could be here for any number of reasons, it could be some sort of insane test or some new mission neither of them had anticipated, but then it could just be that he had been careless somehow, somewhere along the way. He would have to wait and see, wait until the real questioning started. Up until now they had just been toying with him, asking the usual, his name, why he was at Buck House, where was his father, nothing to indicate what they were really after.

The door opened and he was beaten again, although not with much vigour and dragged out of the cell. This time it was to a different room, more spacious, cleaner, with a two-way, a desk, and chairs. He was pushed into one of the chairs; hand cuffed again, this time in front of his body rather than behind. ‘Now we get to it’ he thought, stiffening in anticipation.

Seven minutes later, the adrenalin had faded away; he’d been left alone, shivering in the chair. He recognised the time period as one he’d used before; five minutes was not enough to create the right level of anxiety, after seven minutes they were really stretched emotionally. The real cruelty came with the knowledge that in the back of their mind lingered this hope that somehow, and they never explained to themselves how, but somehow you’d forgotten them, they always thought you’d forgotten them, crazy. He shook his head slowly, knowing the psychology behind it didn’t make it easier to deal with and that was a new fact for him to absorb.

The door opened and Rob Spencer walked in. He was one of Clay’s oldest friends and Clay’s heart lifted. Then he crushed the hope; Rob wasn’t here as a friend but as the tough bastard Clay had come to respect when they roomed and later served together, one who enjoyed this part of his work far too much.

“Hello Clayton,”

“What happened to Clay?”

“Ah well,” said Rob, his face made comical with regret, “we have to be professional, don’t we. But don’t think this isn’t going to be a bit difficult for me as well.”

“Really?” asked Clay, “I didn’t think anything could put you off your stride.”

“Oh don’t get me wrong,” said Rob, “I’ll do what I have to do and by the numbers, but I really never expected to see you on the other end of it.”

“Neither did I,” answered Clay, “but here we are.”

“Yes.”

“By the way,” said Clay, “Why are we here? I mean, correct me if I’m wrong, but I was sure I was on my way to receive a commendation for the biggest terrorist coup in history.” He smiled easily despite his nakedness; the epitome of cool, “I’m not sure I understand.”

“Ah,” said Rob, “but that’s it, isn’t it, understanding.”

“Bit cryptic, Rob,” said Clay, “look, can I get some clothes; I’m a tad cold here.”

Rob smirked then looked towards the two-way, “Someone get him a blanket; I don’t want to sit looking at his bollocks all day.”

“Cup of coffee and something to eat?”

“Don’t push it,” said Rob. He waited for a bit then addressed the two-way again, “And bring him a cup of coffee.”

“So why are we here?” asked Clay.

Rob raised his eyebrows, his whole face a mocking question mark.

“I mean, I know we’re here to torture me,” said Clay, “that’s fairly obvious, but why?”

“We’ll get to that Clay, my old son,” said Rob, “but first we need to clear up one or two details.”

The blanket and coffee arrived, Rob waited until the officer had left before continuing.

“What exactly was this mission you’ve been on?” asked Rob.

“You know that,” said Clay, “it’s documented, it was an official op and you’ve got the paperwork there in front of you.” He indicated the folder Rob had placed on the desk between them.

“Yes, of course,” said Rob, “locate and infiltrate the Black Hands,” he continued, making a mock-scary face, “thing is Clay, how did you know where to go to find them?”

“I didn’t,” said Clay.

“But you got yourself sent to Boro, which is where they just happened to be.”

“I didn’t ‘get myself sent to Boro’ as you put it, that just happened to be where they put me. Besides, mine wasn’t the only op on the go” he nodded towards the folder again, “it’s there in the record.”

“Oh yes, that’s right,” said Rob, “10 undercovers set in motion to try and flush out the ‘Black Hands’ and it’s all right here….Liverpool, Brum, Boro, Toontown, the Mancs...” He flicked through the paperwork solemnly, “yep, you are right …all the usual suspects, all present and correct.”

Clay sipped his coffee, trying for a convincing level of relaxed, trying to read Rob’s tone and the heavy use of ‘right’ that somehow sounded all wrong.

“So how’d you manage to win their trust?”

‘Shit,’ thought Clay, can’t mention Sandra or they’ll have her too, “I don’t know, just good at what I do, I s’pose”

“Come on, Clay,” said Rob, “you must’ve had something going on; why else would they trust you? Why would they let you into their little inner circle?”

“I guess they found out I could fight,” said Clay.

Rob frowned, “That you could fight?”

“Well it was an accident really,” said Clay, “but I beat up their muscle.”

“You beat up their muscle?” questioned Rob, this was either news to him or he was a better actor than Clay would’ve given him credit for.

“Yeah,” said Clay, “bit of luck really, these boys tried it on and I smacked them, it kind of impressed the leader of the Hands and he invited me in to teach them to fight.”

“So he told you straight off then, er this Donald Coogan chap, he told you straight off that he was the Leader of the Black Hands.”

“No,” said Clay, “no, he just said they’d had issues with the local police and it would be useful if they could handle themselves.”

“Right?” said Rob, “nothing to do with dating this Donald’s daughter then?”

Clay sighed and closed his eyes lightly, “Okay, I was seeing his daughter, but she’s not involved with them.”

“Well, we’ll have to make that decision, won’t we, Clay,” said Rob.

“She’s not,” stressed Clay, “Look Rob, what’s this all about? Why am I here? You clearly have the op details and you obviously know more than you’re letting on. I managed to infiltrate the Hands, and yeah the girl helped, but the important thing is a) she doesn’t know anything about it and b) I caught the leader and his team.”

“Well, that’s the problem, Clay,” said Rob “Did you?”

“What?”

“Did you catch the leader of the Black Hands and his black-hearted men?”

“Where are you going with this, Rob? Are you suggesting I faked it?” he laughed, trying for a light note, “What? I faked the whole deal for promotion and a medal?”

“Stranger things have happened,” answered Rob.

“Ah, come on, Rob,” said Clay, “you know I wouldn’t do that, just check with my father, he was there at the interrogations, he heard the confession, he knows we had the leader of the Hands, just ask him.”

“Well and there’s the rub…I can’t,” said Rob, “You see….” He pulled a picture from the folder, studied it for a bit then slid it across the table to Clay. Clay stared down at the picture of a naked man, clearly dead; the torso completely blackened from bruising, the face battered almost unrecognisable. He noted the small cuts, open wounds, drill holes, burns, and clear indications of broken bones. He stared; imprinting the indignities that had been suffered into his brain.

“We did ask him but he proved … difficult,” said Rob, “and before we’d got any satisfactory answers…” he opened his hands out and semi-shrugged “… his heart gave out.”

Clay continued to stare at the picture, spoke without looking up “You realise I’ll kill you for this” the words quiet and without emotion

“This wasn’t my handy work” said Rob, “I’m surprised at you. I’d never have let him die before I had all the information I wanted, you know that.”

Clay shook his head, “But why?”

“Look Clay,” said Rob, “there really is no point in continuing with this facade, we know everything, we just need you to confess to it, that’s all, now why don’t you save us all some time and let’s face it, the unnecessary aggravation of all that,” he waved his hand towards the picture, “…stuff, unnecessary in your case I’m sure.”

“Ha,” said Clay, “We both know this is going to happen, whatever I say.”

Rob grinned, “Of course it is, can’t be too careful, can we?” Clay finished his coffee. “But look, I want to show you something, make things a little clearer to you maybe.”

He stood up and nodded towards the two-way, pulled over one of the chairs, placing it equidistant between Clay and his own chair then sat back down. They waited a few minutes then the door opened, Clay’s jaw dropped.

“I thought you’d like this,” said Rob.

Donald walked in, moved to the spare chair and sat down. He smiled comfortably, all relaxed and bonhomie.

“Surprised?”

“Let me introduce,” said Rob, “agent 459, or Donald as you knew him ….”

“A sleeper,” said Clay under his breath.

“Yes,” said Rob, “that’s it exactly. He’d been in Boro for 20 years, his job... well you can better describe your job eh, 459.”

Donald grinned, “Of course,” He smiled benignly at Clay, “you know what, I owe you so much Terry, sorry … Clay.”

“You bastard” Clay moved angrily in his chair and Donald leaned away slightly, relaxing again when he noted the hand cuffs.

“I’d been in that god forsaken hole for 20 years, 20 years? Can you imagine that? What a god awful posting, what a shit job, then along you come, and to think I was going to shop you right from the off, I’m so-o-o glad I didn’t, I’m so glad I let Sand persuade me to let you in.”

“Sandra knew?” asked Clay.

“Knew what?” asked 459, “Oh you mean about me, no they don’t know. In fact, and this will really surprise you … I’m not actually their real father.” He laughed at Clay’s expression, “Not the only one who can pretend to be what they’re not, eh!” He paused a moment, his timing was perfect; “I’ll tell you something else since it won’t go out of this room - they’re not even brother and sister. They picked two kids with brown eyes, god knows where they got ‘em from and gave them to me as part of my cover, simple.”

“And Darren, where’d you find him?” Clay had been duped, blinded by lust or love, something he should’ve been immune to, had bought into the family scene; now he was in danger of losing himself in a welter of self loathing.

“Oh, yeah, Darren…” Donald grinned, “well I’m not a monk, am I...his mum died having him, so what could I do?”

“Yeah, what could he do?” echoed Rob, his eyes on Clay.

“Bet you want to know what happened, don’t you,” smirked 459. “Of course you do, well when I got picked up by you lot my handler started a search. And despite me being in that ‘safe’ house as we’d agreed, would you believe it, they found me.”

“Thanks to the wonders of modern science,” said Rob, by way of explanation and keeping the conversation going, “we now know where everyone is in the country, all the time.” He tapped his forearm, locating his chip with the second tap.

“Which was really lucky,” said 459, “because when they came for me I was able to blow your little scheme to pieces.” He glanced down at the photo on the table, “Looks like he got one thing right though - torture and heart attacks, eh?”

Clay sat very still.

“And you got a promotion in the process, didn’t you, Donald” Rob was nodding to Clay, an encouraging nod, a ‘get the point’ nod, Clay, here’s the man who caused the ruin of the grand plan, here’s the cause of your father’s painful death, not me, him.

“Right,” said 459, “and no more Boro.”

“And to think I quite liked you, Donald” Clay spoke, almost absently.

“Nothing pers…”

Clay had begun moving on the word Donald; he was out of his chair and across the table with the palm of his right hand arcing towards Donald’s mouth, striking him just above the top lip and driving the bone back and upwards into Donald’s brain before Donald had finished speaking.

He was dead before he hit the ground.

Clay sat back down, his breathing returning to normal as he leaned back, nodding at Rob “Thank you for the opportunity”

“Happy to oblige, Clay old son,” said Rob, nodding, impressed at the speed he remembered from training, still a speed he could only dream of, “just think of it as an early Christmas present.”

Cheers for reading

Arun




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