Binscombe Tales - The Complete Series (62 page)

The dying down of the sporadic flames prevented me from seeing the reported injuries and lent a softening, gentle light to otherwise harsh facts of the flesh. Doctor Bani-Sadr had talked about missing limbs and buckets of gore but I couldn’t see that. To me, the pilot looked as if he might at any minute awake from sleep and clamber out to fight another day.

But he wouldn’t of course, and the thought of why not prompted me to hurriedly consider other, lesser things. Why, for instance, was his uniform so old and faded and patched? Why were his RAF buttons and badge, for such they obviously were, mere crude tinplate cut-outs?  In fact, everything on and around him had the look of long service or salvage, an air of being cobbled together from a dwindling store. All these features clashed and contrasted with the residual image of youthful enthusiasm that still lingered around the pilot, with the jaunty sprigs of holly pinned to his blouson and flying cap.

It was a puzzle, a deep puzzle. A puzzle I found instantly, totally forgettable when someone started shooting at us.

I was off the plane and away in less time than my mind took to form the word ‘bullets’ but, ten paces on, I was brought to a sudden halt. A powerful spotlight had skewered me and the others round the plane. Like a rabbit before a juggernaut, I was rooted to the spot, awaiting developments—with just as much optimism.

We weren’t kept waiting long. A bullhorn enhanced voice from the field edge soon put us in the picture.

‘Please stay where you are,’ it said. ‘You are in no danger if you stay where you are. Our shots were directed in the air. We are grateful for your cooperation.’

That was as may be but, correctly discerning that we had the pleasure of being addressed by the authorities, many of the Binscomites on the fringes of the light-beam promptly scattered in all directions, disappearing into the night and trees. Given their intimate knowledge of obscure woodland tracks and short cuts, it was highly unlikely that anything short of a helicopter assisted dragnet would fetch them back. In fact, considering some of the personalities involved, the authorities should have been grateful their fire wasn’t returned with interest. However, they didn’t see it that way. The bullhorn voiced impotent displeasure and polite threats at the receding villagers, but to no avail.

A fair few of us were left, even so—the more timid, less paranoid, bang-slap centre beam types. We stood and watched as a flood of figures issued from the direction of the God-like voice and headed in our direction.

It was a very efficient operation. Within a few moments the troops had roped off the plane and shrouded it from sight in khaki canvas. Other soldiers, civil but no-nonsense, herded us out of the field to where their trucks and APCs were parked.

‘Thank you so much,’ said their head man, perched up alongside the spotlight mounted on a huge tracked beast of a vehicle. His voice lacked the slightest trace of the gratitude expressed. ‘You will not be delayed any longer than necessary. Please form an orderly queue by the side of this carrier and sign the document presented to you. Thank you so much.’

Any of the more interesting alternatives to obedience were blocked by gun wielding men, so we did as was ‘asked’.

‘What’s this?’ I said to the brutish looking sergeant who proffered pad and pen to me. ‘Do you expect me to...’

‘It’s all the same to me,’ he replied with all the sad weariness of a philosopher. ‘You can sign it now or else peruse it at your leisure in a secret, high security detention cell with loud white-noise being played at you.’

‘Oh.’

‘So given the choice, son, if you want my personal advice, I’d sign now.’

There was a lot to be said for his argument, but I resisted the temptation to say it and signed instead.

Mr Disvan followed on and scrawled his name without demur. We were then allowed to walk away, shambling off with all the rest, clutching the carbon-copy document provided to us.

‘Official Secrets Act,’ said Disvan calmly, saving me the trouble of finding a light to read it by. ‘Merely a token gesture really, something to cow the more modern-minded. I need hardly tell you, of all people, that in contract law, an agreement entered into under duress is null and void.’

‘Exactly so,’ said a gentle, cultured voice from beside us, ‘and in understanding all, perhaps you will find it in yourself to also forgive all.’

We turned to see a slim middle-aged man, exquisitely dressed in three-piece suit complete with handkerchief and discreet white rose buttonhole, regarding us from a few yards away.

‘Yes, I should think so,’ said Mr Disvan, entirely unfazed by this vision of urbanity. ‘My curiosity has been satisfied and I’ve no real demands beyond that.’

‘That’s so good to hear,’ said the suited man, plainly delighted to encounter someone within visible distance of his own intellectual level. ‘One regrets the necessity for ordering these rather savage swoops, but...’

‘ “A prince has not the privilege of his private heart in affairs of state”,’ interrupted Mr Disvan.

‘Not Machiavelli, surely?’ drawled the man with decently concealed glee. Disvan nodded modestly.

‘A much misunderstood man,’ said the suited one, suddenly saddened and yet animated by his subject. ‘A reputation overlaid by centuries of misdirected ethical critiques.’

‘Indeed,’ said Disvan in his neutral agreeing tone. ‘So you’re in overall charge here, are you?’

The man diffidently signified he was—which was the volatile Mr Bretwalda’s cue to rocket, warp factor nine style, out of the darkness and bear down on him. A dozen or so other villagers were mere seconds behind Bretwalda’s towering bulk. It was a neat little ambush.

However, just as swiftly, the suited man’s hitherto unsuspected minder, a burly NCO, appeared from nowhere and wrestled with Mr Bretwalda. Then, finding himself unequal to the task, one, two, three, four, finally five supporters were called on to assist. Reinforcements piled in from either side and a bloody battle briefly flared.

Across the fray, the suited man studied Mr Disvan with renewed interest and, from my position behind a convenient tree, I could see that some form of silent communication was passing between the two respective ‘generals’ and agreement was being reached. Then, by their joint intervention, the fighting was (with difficulty) brought to a halt.

‘Apology, no arrests, no repercussions?’ said Mr Disvan to the suited man.

‘Dispersal, no press-leaks, no reprisals?’ he countered.

They nodded simultaneously and set about fulfilling their sides of the bargain. Within five minutes we had received a witty but fulsome apology from the suited man and Disvan had arranged the Binscomites’ departure. Mr Disvan’s credit was so good, there was even a fair chance that they would not return later on, guerrilla (or poacher) style, to satisfy honour with a bit of sabotage.

Once peace was achieved, I emerged from cover and rejoined Disvan and the suited man. They were shaking hands.

‘Mr Disvan,’ said Disvan, by way of introduction.

‘Mr X,’ replied the suited man, ‘or so I must be for the duration of the exercise, I’m afraid.’

‘You security lot usually sign yourself “Mr Densham”, don’t you?’ said Disvan, causing Mr X to raise one elegant eyebrow.

‘Oh, you know about that, I see,’ he said. ‘Well, Densham or X, just as you wish.’

Mr Disvan smiled his understanding of the dilemma.

‘I’m sorry about all the... unpleasantness,’ he said obligingly. ‘But, well, we just don’t like being mucked about; do we, Mr Oakley?’

‘Er... no, not really.’

‘Absolutely not,’ agreed Mr X enthusiastically. ‘One deprecates the necessity entirely. There was no primary desire to incommode, I can assure you.’

Mr Disvan put on his ‘elder-statesman, experience breeds tolerance’ look.

‘Think nothing of it,’ he said. ‘We understand the need.’

‘I don’t,’ I said, breaking up the old pals act.

‘You don’t?’ gasped Mr X incredulously, studying me properly for the first time. ‘Is this a friend of yours, Mr Disvan?’

‘Um... yes,’ said Disvan, souring the vote of confidence with insulting hesitation.

‘I see,’ said Mr X dubiously. ‘Well, that notwithstanding, he appears to be unfamiliar with the Many Worlds Theorum, far from
au fait
with the concept of the multiverse...’

‘More than likely,’ agreed Disvan sadly, ‘but, myself, I’m inclined to give him the benefit of the doubt. Let’s just say he’s failed to think through the consequences.’

It was bad enough being patronised, let alone being spoken of as if I was a moderately clever doggie.

‘‘Hang on!’ I barked. ‘Just a minute.’

‘The thing is,’ interrupted Mr X, in a way that was somehow terribly polite and yet very compelling, ‘that if there is an infinite multiplicity of parallel worlds; if each event and decision does create two separate, ongoing, universes, and if those continuums do, on occasion, interact, there are profound consequences. Surely you can appreciate that?’

I was taken aback. He looked like an exceptionally depraved or dismal—and therefore successful—accountant or lawyer. Such people, predictability being their stock in trade, did not normally offer metaphysical speculations. All I could offer by way of a parry was ‘um’.

‘Um...’

‘Imagine, if you can my dear fellow,’ continued Mr X, warming to the topic, ‘maintaining normal international relations if it should become generally known that, in a closely adjacent continuum, World War Two is still under way.’ And here he waved one languid hand towards the ‘Spitfire’ in the field beyond. ‘How does her Majesty receive the present German ambassador in those circumstances? With what feelings should HMG welcome Japanese investment in South Wales? What sort of reception would their much valued tourists find waiting?’

I conceded there might be certain difficulties involved.

‘You jest not, dear boy. Within a year, we’d be back at war. The masses just couldn’t cope with the knowledge.’

Enlightenment was slowly dawning on me—unwelcome as that of a dreaded examination day.

‘So.’ I said slowly, ‘you and your specially trained men swoop down on any...’

‘ “Overlap phenomena”, we call them,’ said Mr X helpfully.

‘…and dispose of the evidence and frighten any witnesses into silence,’ I concluded.

‘That’s about the size of it,’ he agreed smilingly. ‘Although you’ve used highly valued terms throughout. We happen to see ourselves as acting for the greater good. If the world were to know nothing in history was ever really settled; that there was a parallel-worlds court of appeal for history’s judgements, there’d be no more peace for anyone.’

Something about his certainty, his smugness, rankled. He was also right, of course, which only made it worse.

‘What about a spot of glasnost?’ I asked in a state of some agitation. ‘What about democracy?’

‘What indeed?’ Mr X replied, my obviously undergraduate level ideals bouncing harmlessly off his carapace of cynicism.

‘But, in turn, Mr Oakley,’ said Mr Disvan, poking his nose in as devil’s advocate, ‘what about race relations?’

‘Indeed,’ echoed Mr X. ‘Why, only this year, my department has dealt with overlap phenomena relating to a Welsh dominated Britain and a Chinese world empire. Dynamite stuff if it should get out.’

‘We can’t afford to have race riots in this world about oppression in another, can we?’ asked Disvan reasonably.

Mr X nodded his wholehearted acceptance of the statement.

‘Mind you,’ he said, ‘the World War Two overlaps are by far the most common. We think it’s the closest parallel world to our own, if concepts of distance have any meaning in the context.’