Redlaw - 01 (21 page)

The logic of Peake’s cocaine philosophising had started to fade, along with the buzz, as a ministerial limousine ferried Slocock along the M4 into London.

Traffic was abysmal. From Heston Services onwards the Lexus was stuck in a slow-crawling cavalcade of vehicles, moving in lockstep with the riffraff in their white vans, people carriers and National Express coaches. Slocock’s driver tutted and huffed and, etiquette be damned, joined in the occasional bouts of horn-tooting to express his frustration. Once the motorway became a flyover past Osterley, then at least there was the distraction of something to see while inching along, something exceptional and startling: the patches of the city where fires still smouldered and smoke still twisted upward in filmy strands.

Peake had been right.
Fucking Rwanda or something
.

From Hammersmith to Westminster—five miles as the crow flies—was another tortuous hour and a half’s driving, diversion after diversion threading the car through the dreary Sloane dormitories of Fulham and even across the river and back. Slocock arrived at Parliament with barely twenty minutes to spare before the all-important press conference began.

The Central Lobby, where the Houses of Commons and Lords intersected, teemed with TV reporters doing live pieces to camera, setting the scene for the main event. Slocock was waylaid by a rather tasty bit of totty from Sky News, who asked him if there was anything he could tell the viewers about the content of the Prime Minister’s upcoming statement.

He feigned ignorance. “Not a clue. Shadow Cabinet—we tend to be kept in the dark by the other side. Your guess is as good as mine.”

“But you must have some inkling what he’s going to say, Mr Slocock,” the reporter insisted. “Anything you’d care to share with us?”

“There’s plenty I’d like to share with
you
, love,” Slocock said, with a caddish leer. “None of it suitable for broadcast.”

Her smile said coy amusement. Her eyes said
I’d slap you if I didn’t think it would cost me my job
.

Soon, it was time. Slocock settled down with a coffee at a table in the Pugin Room, where a TV had been set up, tuned to BBC News 24. He and an assortment of ministers, permanent private secretaries, personal assistants, aides and spin doctors watched as, onscreen, the PM entered the Grand Committee Room to a lightning storm of flashbulbs. Maurice Wax followed, and behind him strode the cocksure, leonine figure of Nathaniel Lambourne.

“Isn’t that your sugar daddy, Giles?” some Labour wag quipped.

Slocock flicked him a V.

“Boyfriend, I heard,” someone else said, a wonky-chinned Lib Dem from the Midlands. “They meet in Soho for long candlelit dinners
à deux
.”

There was widespread chuckling over that, which Slocock silenced by saying, “The next smartarse remark from any of you, I will seriously fuck that person up. You want to be eating meals through a straw for the next six weeks? Then make a joke. Go on. I dare you.”

Nobody believed he would actually make good on this threat. At the same time, he was volatile enough that nobody was going to take the risk.

“Now shut up, all of you, and let’s see this.”

“Ladies, gentlemen,” said the Prime Minister, seated between Wax and Lambourne behind a long oakwood table. “I come before you today at a critical juncture in British history, when our nation faces a grave dilemma. We’re all too aware of the regrettable events of the past forty-eight hours or so. There’s no need for me to rehearse them here. Nor is it for me to apportion blame. Responsibility lies on both sides and neither. There’s no right or wrong, as I see it. There’s one viewpoint and another, one culture clashing with another culture.

“For nearly two decades now, we in Britain have attempted to handle the increasing influx of Sunless as best we can. We have allowed them to reside among us. We have, for their wellbeing and ours, assigned them clearly demarcated portions of our cities and towns. We have provided them, out of the kindness of our hearts, with refuge and sustenance, expecting nothing in return but that they remain put and do not trouble us. We have, I believe, been exemplary in devoting time and resources to them. Other countries have not been so charitable. Our generosity, in terms of both material goods and spirit, has been second to none.

“I regret to say that the time for such boundless tolerance seems to be past. For the sake of the Sunless community, and of the people of this great nation, a change of approach is called for. The state of mutual antagonism that presently exists cannot be allowed to worsen any further. We must perforce take drastic steps. We must act in a manner which may seem to some unforgiving, even harsh, but which I assure you is not only necessary, but advantageous to all.

“I’ll hand over now to the Secretary of State, Maurice Wax, who can give you further details. Maurice.”

Wax asked for the lights to be dimmed. He moved to stand beside a digital projection screen, on which a map of the British Isles loomed into life, measled with red dots of various sizes.

“These dots,” said Wax, “represent the locations of SRAs. The larger the dot, the greater the Sunless population. As you can see, the highest concentration of Sunless is down here in the south-east. It’s where most make landfall from the continent. They tend not to move north and west, but stay more or less where they arrive.

“They are scattered nonetheless. This results in logistical and administrative challenges. It makes it hard to keep track of their numbers and meet their needs accordingly. Hence, we believe, the root cause of these so-called bloodlust riots. Maintaining consistent supply when demand is so diverse and disparate has led to issues of resentment and deprivation.

“Our solution... is this.”

The image on the screen changed. Now there was an aerial shot of a geodesic dome, a flattened hemisphere made up of hexagonal sections. The metal framework was black, the inset panels made of some gleaming, dark grey material. It nestled in the lee of a hillside, with outcrops of coniferous forest all around. A sense of scale was hard to get from the picture, but the impression given was that the dome was enormous, football stadium size or even larger.

“It looks not unlike a theme park or a holiday park,” Wax said, “or perhaps a giant greenhouse. Within, however, lies this.”

From exterior to interior. A kind of open-topped labyrinth now occupied the screen, with the dome forming a darkly opaque, overarching firmament above. The labyrinth was composed of clusters of roofless, single-storey dwellings arranged in a grid pattern. Filling the spaces between were plazas, streets and squares, all radiating from a hub lying directly beneath the apex of the dome. It all had an air of beehive tidiness, a kind of pristine, microcosmic perfection.

“We are calling it Solarville. To be precise, what you’re looking at is Solarville One. The first of a proposed fifteen such ventures.”

The chatter from the assembled journalists had started as a hum when the shot of the dome came up. Now it was a rumble, rising to a clamour.

“Please,” said Wax, “we will answer questions—and I’m sure you have many—once we’re done with the announcement. Until then, if you could quieten down...”

The noise abated.

“A man better able than I to explain the workings of Solarville is sitting over there.” All eyes turned to Lambourne. “I’m sure you all recognise Nathaniel Lambourne of Dependable Chemicals. He is, I suppose you could say, the father of the whole project. It is his brainchild. Nathaniel? Over to you.”

Lambourne beamed beatifically.

“Solarville is the ultimate SRA,” he said. “It’s the next generation, version two-point-oh. Purpose-built, a safe haven, self-contained, secure, ideal. A good three thousand Sunless will fit comfortably within its environs, each at liberty to roam its streets, occupy one of the berths on offer, enjoy independence and a good quality of living, free from interference and intervention from outside. The dome affords shelter from the elements, hence the lack of a need for roofs within. We feel this arrangement suits the Sunless temperament and social disposition to a T.”

He held up a finger, as if in objection.

“‘But isn’t this a form of confinement?’ is what you’re thinking. ‘A glorified prison?’ Well, you couldn’t be more wrong. I concede that admission into and out of Solarville will be closely monitored. There is only a single entrance.”

A three-dimensional schematic of the dome rotated to show one access point at the base: large double gates that formed two halves of a hexagon.

“This will be SHADE-guarded. However—and it is a significant however—in return the Sunless will be granted something that has hitherto been denied them. Something we humans regard as essential, even life-giving, but which to them is fatal. Something... wonderful.”

The sun filled the screen, shimmeringly bright.

“The dome’s individual panes are made of glass. Darkened, light-inhibiting glass. It’s designed to screen out the worst of the sun’s radiance while allowing some light to penetrate still. Put simply, Solarville is an environment in which Sunless may walk outdoors during the day without fear of being burned to a crisp. We are offering them that which we take for granted and which has been anathema to them throughout all generations ’til today. It’s what’s known in the business sector as a trade-off—or, if you prefer, a damn good deal.”

Slocock drained his coffee. A hush had fallen in the Pugin Room, everyone intent on the TV, absorbed, mesmerised.

Alea iacta est
, as his Classics teacher used to say, every time the class handed their test answers in.
The die is cast
. No going back now.

The questions from the press pack came thick and fast.

“Mr Lambourne? Mr Lambourne! How do you know it’ll be completely safe for the Sunless under that dome? Have you run tests?”

“Thank you for asking that,” said Lambourne. “We’ve not actually tested whether the glass will provide perfect immunity from the effects of the sun. There are two reasons for this. First off, were we to do so and the experiment failed, it would be tantamount to committing murder. Second, as in all things Sunless we are dealing with the supernatural—facts which cannot be ascertained or verified by empirical methods. However, what we have done is calculate the rate at which sunlight burns Sunless, based on extensive study of all the available video recordings of Sunless perishing in that manner, which amounts to nearly two and a half hours of footage. It was grim viewing, but all in a good cause.

“We then,” Lambourne continued, “devised a formula relating speed of cremation, if I may use that word, to level of solar exposure. The pace of the burning process depends on several factors including the time of day, the time of year, thickness of cloud cover and density of atmospheric pollution. Assembling all the data, we were able to extrapolate what an acceptable level of daily exposure would be. We have computer-modelled extensively, and we are confident that we have judged the occlusion rating of the glass—some ninety-six per cent—with absolute accuracy. A Sunless may stand under our dome all day long, in cloudless conditions, with no more ill effect than you or I spending a summer’s day outdoors.”

“Can you be certain of that?”

“I’m personally investing a small fortune in this, as are the other two members of my consortium. We are all experienced businesspersons and none of us, I can assure you, is the sort to part with money rashly.”

“Mr Wax, how do you know that this is something the Sunless themselves want?”

“You’d have to ask them yourself,” said Wax. A sheen of perspiration glistened on his upper lip. “I can’t see, however, that they could reasonably object. As Mr Lambourne said, Solarville is a better SRA, a marked improvement on their present living conditions. If you arrive at the airport to find you’ve been given a complimentary upgrade from economy to business class, do you say no?”

“Will they have any choice in the matter? Will this be a compulsory relocation?”

“There are times when the public good must come first, over and above individual freedoms—times when... when...”

He faltered. He seemed lost for words. The Prime Minister leapt to his rescue.

“What Maurice is saying is that the Sunless already understand the terms on which they are permitted to stay in this country, the conditions we expect them to abide by. It is implicit in clause two of the Settlement Act, which, if I can remind you, reads ‘Sunless are entitled to a status commensurate with but not equivalent to full British citizenship, allowing for their unique attributes and distinctive differences, in so far as they remain subject to the laws of the land at all times and submit to sequestration in whatsoever fixed locations as the government shall decree.’ I had a hand in drafting the document, of course, back when I was Home Secretary, so I’m more than familiar with the wording. Now, if I as Prime Minister, with the support of my Cabinet, decide that Solarville should be one of the aforementioned ‘fixed locations,’ then there’s really nothing to argue about. The Sunless can be sent there whether they like it or not—although I have no doubt that it’ll be the former.”

“Sunless didn’t actually sign the Settlement Act, sir.”

“Is that a question, young lady?”

“Did any Sunless sign the Settlement Act? Did they actively consent to its stipulations?”