The dark, p.9
The Dark, page 9
‘Doesn’t mean a lot, sir,’ Archie said. ‘There are some pretty cool voice-changing software packages available now. He could have made himself sound like a Klingon if he’d wanted.’
‘He said the next attack will be before the month is out and that things will get steadily worse between now and Christmas,’ Emma went on. ‘I asked him what he wanted, and what he wanted me to do.’
Emma stopped talking and bent to a black handbag on the rug beside her.
‘I had to make notes.’ She opened a notebook and began reading. ‘He said the movement’s aim is simple.’ She glanced up. ‘It’s not, but he used the word several times, so he obviously thinks it is. They want a restoration of the rightful societal order – that’s an exact quote – in which men reclaim their birth-right of leadership and control.’
‘Classic incels,’ Archie muttered.
‘Specifically,’ Emma waited until she had all of their attention again, ‘they have a number of demands.’
‘Go on,’ Mark encouraged.
‘First, that women, with immediate effect, lose their franchise. Henceforth – again his words – no woman will be allowed to vote in a general or local election or a referendum.’
Lacey gave a nervous laugh.
‘Next,’ Emma went on, ‘that all female MPs will immediately lose their parliamentary seats, subsequent by-elections being held with candidates taken from all-male shortlists.’ She looked up. ‘There’s more.’
Mark gestured that she should go on.
‘No woman in future will be educated beyond the age of eighteen, with the exception only of nurses, teachers and social workers. Women who have previously qualified in a given profession will be allowed to continue practising, to ensure ongoing economic viability, but under the supervision of a male colleague. Newly qualified female teachers will only be allowed to teach in primary schools.’
‘This is nuts,’ Lacey said.
‘This is nothing.’ Emma glanced quickly at her friend, and Dana could tell that for all her bravado, the journalist had been upset by her conversation with AryanBoy. ‘All women must marry by the age of twenty-one. Women not married by that age will be assigned a suitable spouse. Children will be the property of the father, and he will automatically be granted custody in the event of a divorce. Only men can seek a divorce. The father’s permission is required before a pregnancy can be terminated.’
She waited, possibly for a reaction. No one had anything to say.
‘Female homosexuality will be made illegal again,’ Emma went on, ‘although I’m not sure it ever was illegal. Male homosexuality will, they expect, phase itself out naturally once all men are given access to suitable female partners. Gender transitioning will be against the law. Women will be required to dress modestly in public and rape in private places will be decriminalised.’
She finished. Still, no one seemed to know what to say.
‘Is that it?’ Mark asked, after a moment.
‘It’s ridiculous.’ Lacey’s normally pale face had reddened. ‘They’ll be a laughing stock.’
‘No, they won’t,’ Dana said. ‘Most of what Emma’s just related is the norm in extreme Islamic countries.’
‘These guys aren’t Islamists,’ Lacey objected. ‘They’re white, aren’t they?’
‘They are,’ Archie agreed. ‘At least predominantly, but the fact that so many countries around the world already have exactly this sort of patriarchal regime will make what they’re suggesting seem reasonable. In their eyes at least.’
In other eyes too, Dana thought. How many men, while not condoning for a minute the use of violence, secretly harked back to a time when life was simpler, when men were men and women knew their place? Something was shifting, she realised; the world was changing in subtle but significant ways, even while they sat here in her neat and stylish sitting room.
‘They can’t expect such draconian measures to be introduced here.’ Lacey was starting to look frightened. ‘Or anywhere in the West.’
All three women, Dana realised, herself included, were watching Mark for his reaction. It didn’t matter how much women like them railed against the idea of such an oppressive patriarchal regime, they’d be powerless unless Mark and the rest of his sex backed them up. Women’s safety, even their freedom, depended entirely upon the kindness of men.
‘They can’t, can they?’ repeated Lacey. ‘They can’t be serious?’
‘Almost certainly not,’ Mark said. ‘Any more than Islamic terrorists genuinely expect to overthrow the West and impose a worldwide caliphate. What they want is attention. Question is, what do they want from you, Emma?’
‘He wants me to write about them,’ Emma said. ‘He was very pissed off that the opening strike – his words – didn’t go as planned. He wants me to get a piece in one of the nationals.’
Mark said, ‘Give them the publicity they’re craving?’
Emma nodded.
He asked, ‘Are you going to?’
Of course she was, no journalist could resist such a chance.
‘As soon as I got off the phone I called Lacey,’ Emma said. ‘Don’t think I support these losers. What they tried to do at Tower Bridge was obscene. And if they say they’ve got worse planned––’
She let the thought hang.
‘On the other hand,’ Lacey prompted.
‘If I don’t run with it, he’ll try someone else,’ said Emma. ‘Most journalists I know won’t hesitate. This story could make my career.’
‘What did you tell him?’ Lacey asked.
‘I said I’d need to do some checking,’ Emma replied. ‘That I’d want to read up on the cause and find out if there really were any of these so-called micro-attacks last night. Were there?’
Emma the friend was receding into the background, Emma the journalist taking over.
‘Are you expecting to talk to him again?’ Lacey asked.
Emma nodded. ‘He said he’d phone me this evening, and he’d need a decision.’
‘Will he meet you?’ Lacey said. ‘In person, I mean.’
‘I doubt it,’ Emma replied. ‘But I can ask.’
‘Can you trace the call,’ Lacey asked Mark. ‘If Emma agrees to cooperate, that is.’
‘Depends,’ Archie answered. ‘I’d expect him to use a pre-paid burner phone bought with cash and a disposable number from a smartphone app.’
‘So, no?’ Lacey asked.
‘So, yes,’ Archie replied. ‘No phone is untraceable. Every time he uses it, whether to call, text or access the internet, he’s leaving a trace that the telecom companies can pick up. They’ll be able to tell where he is from which cell masts are picking up his signal. If he’s got two phones, which is likely, his own and the burner he’s using to call you, both will be passing between cellular towers at the same time. We spot a phone that’s following the same trajectory as the burner phone and that will lead us to him.’
Both Lacey and Emma were frowning, struggling to keep up with Archie’s explanation of how the technology worked.
‘Just be glad he understands it,’ Mark said, in an undertone.
‘If he’s with someone else,’ Archie went on, ‘a mate for example, we can track him through his mate’s phone. This next part is a bit technical but once we get a trace on his phone, we can start to figure out some information about the device itself, which might lead us to the provider and the shop where he bought it. Most shops have CCTV and staff tend to remember customers who pay in cash. Voice-matching software might be able to help us. The chances are he knows all this though. He’ll be wise to it.’
‘Emma, are you prepared to cooperate with us, in return for exclusive information on the investigation?’ Mark asked.
She looked him straight in the eyes. ‘Why do you think I’m here?’
23
The second the journalist agreed to cooperate, Joesbury regretted asking. It was all very well expecting his team to take risks, and he’d lost count of the times his own life had been hanging by a thread, but Emma was a civilian. She wasn’t trained, couldn’t necessarily be relied upon, and would be another potential problem. On the other hand, she was all they had.
‘Hold on, isn’t this dangerous?’ Dana echoed his own thoughts. ‘For Emma, I mean.’
‘They won’t hurt me while I’m useful to them,’ Emma said.
‘And when you’re not?’ Dana retorted. ‘When you’ve written your story and become a nice, high-profile potential victim? When you think you can trust them because you’ve done what they asked and they seem grateful?’
‘They’ll go for you in a flash if they find out you’re working with the police,’ Lacey agreed.
Joesbury got to his feet; it was time to move this on. Already, the two women, with the possible exception of his mum, who meant the most to him, had become far too involved. And they were both frightened. They’d tried to hide their subtle change in attitude towards him and Archie but he’d seen the same thought process running through both their heads, and Emma’s. Are these two men still allies? Can we still trust them?
‘Emma, can you come to Scotland Yard?’ he asked. ‘We can get you properly briefed and arrange protection.’
Glancing nervously at Lacey, Emma got to her feet.
‘Uniform will be outside until Helen gets home.’ Joesbury made his way to the door. ‘Huck will be here at noon, is that OK? I’m not sure when I’ll be back.’
‘He’ll be annoyed,’ Dana warned, although Huck never normally minded spending time with her.
Joesbury glanced over to where Lacey stood in the doorway of the sitting room and felt, for the first time in hours, some of the tension slipping away. He liked her best without make-up, hair damp from swimming.
‘Not if Lacey’s here,’ he said. ‘He won’t notice I’m gone.’
At Scotland Yard, Joesbury introduced Emma to his team, using only first names to be on the safe side. While they were talking her through the equipment they’d use that evening, he was called up to a meeting with the commissioner. He arrived to find her with Dan Owen, the head of counter terrorism.
‘We’ll take flack if we let her write her story,’ the commissioner argued from her window overlooking the Thames. ‘Either we’ll look fools for not knowing what was going on, or we’ll have neglected our duty by not coming clean with the public.’
Short of locking Emma up, there was no way they could stop her, but Joesbury wisely didn’t point that out.
‘Emma Boston’s the best lead we’ve got right now.’ He helped himself to coffee; the commissioner always had the best in the building. ‘If we go public before she writes her story, we’ll gain the upper hand but lose the best chance we have to track them down.’
‘I’m not sure we’ll take that much flack, ma’am,’ Dan Owen said. ‘The baby was saved by off-duty police officers, with the timely assistance of the marine unit. So far, we come out of it rather well.’
The commissioner sighed as she picked up the phone. ‘I’d better let the home secretary know.’
At eight o’clock that night, Emma Boston was back at Scotland Yard, in the sound-proof booth used for telephone conversations the Met needed to trace, waiting for AryanBoy to call. Her phone was connected to equipment in the outer office, meaning Joesbury and the team could see every text message that came in, and hear any call she might make or receive.
A text pinged into Emma’s phone at that moment, appearing in a highlighted box on Joesbury’s screen.
Good luck, you’ll be great. Lacey.
Joesbury didn’t look round but was pretty certain more than one member of the team had glanced his way. Lacey hadn’t, he registered, wished him luck.
The two of them really had to talk. The last few times they’d met had been earlier in the year on a job in the North West, one that had proven both difficult and dangerous. Since they’d been back in London, he’d been giving her space. If he was honest, he’d needed a bit himself. An innocent woman had died in Cumbria and however often he might tell himself he couldn’t have prevented it, there would always be a small voice inside him whispering that it had been his fault.
For the first time, when his bosses had argued he needed to end the field work, Joesbury hadn’t demurred. And a London-based job would keep him near Lacey. Whatever problems might stand in the way of their relationship, geography didn’t have to be one of them.
Emma’s phone began ringing. Through the glass screen that separated the booth from the general office, Joesbury nodded at her to go ahead.
She flicked the switch that would answer the call and said, ‘Emma Boston,’ into the microphone, as the sound technician began playing the low-level background noise that should fool the caller into thinking Emma was in her flat in Earl’s Court.
‘Where are you?’ the caller asked, as Emma nodded frantically – yes, this was him – and Joesbury glanced at the trace team. None of them looked back, they were already engrossed. Two of his cyber team were present too. Georgie was online, surfing through one incel site after another, tracking any real-time response to the call; Archie had been charged with trying to identify any voice-changing software being used.
‘Home,’ Emma replied.
‘Where’s home?’ AryanBoy said in a distinctive Midlands accent.
Emma said. ‘I’m not telling you that.’
Joesbury nodded his approval.
‘I’ve spoken to some contacts I have at the Mail on Sunday,’ Emma went on. ‘They’re interested in principle, for next Sunday.’
‘No,’ AryanBoy said. ‘I want one of the qualities. And I want the story to run in the morning.’
‘Not possible,’ Emma replied. ‘For one thing, I have to write it, and that will take most of the night. There’s no way we can catch tomorrow’s deadline. And then they’d have to read it, check out it’s for real. They’ll want to talk to their police contacts. No paper will run a story that could potentially make them look fools.’
Silence.
‘Monday morning then,’ AryanBoy replied. ‘And I want The Times. Front page.’
‘I can’t promise either of those things. If you don’t want the Mail on Sunday – which has a massive circulation, so I think you should reconsider – then I’m starting from scratch,’ Emma said. ‘The editors of the dailies might not be available over the weekend, and even if I get hold of the editor of The Times, he might not be interested. I know it’s a big story, but you never know with these people.’
More silence.
‘The best I can do is try for a midweek,’ Emma went on. ‘Wednesday, Tuesday if we’re lucky. Or we can stick with the Mail on Sunday next weekend.’
Joesbury could see the journalist’s hands shaking, even though she sounded normal and confident.
‘Unless you’re planning something else this week,’ Emma said. ‘In which case, it probably does have to be Tuesday, so that events haven’t moved on before the story appears. I see that.’
Joesbury gave her a thumbs up; she was doing everything he’d asked of her.
‘I’ll think about it,’ AryanBoy replied, as the officer tracing the call beckoned Joesbury over. ‘Give me some options, OK? Keep the Mail on Sunday on the table but make enquiries about a midweek on Tuesday or Wednesday. We’ll go with the best offer.’
The twat enjoyed giving orders.
‘OK, will do,’ Emma said, in the booth. ‘So, can I ask you some questions?’
‘Shoot.’
‘We think he might be in St James’s Park,’ the trace officer told Joesbury, pointing out a triangulated area on his screen that contained most, if not all, of the central London park. ‘Technically he could be anywhere in that triangle, but an outdoor space feels the most likely.’
‘Tell me about yourself,’ Emma said.
AryanBoy laughed, ‘Oh, nice try.’
‘I’m not expecting name and address, but readers will want to know who’s behind such a big movement. What’s driving you? Why did you feel the need to take such extreme action? Can you tell me how old you are? Have you ever been married?’
‘This is not about me. It’s about men enslaved by a system that is skewed against them.’
The man was letting his impatience show. Given how early in the call it was, that suggested a lack of stability.
‘We’re trying to access CCTV in that area,’ the officer went on. ‘Shouldn’t take long.’
Behind him, Joesbury heard Archie speaking into a phone. ‘Control, this is suite 134, can you send all available cars to St James’s park? Suspect is a white male, age twenty to forty, probably alone, talking into a mobile phone. Observe, do not approach.’
It was far too vague, there would be dozens of men in the area answering that description.
In the booth, Emma was talking. ‘And yet we have a male prime minister, most of the cabinet are men, two thirds of MPs are men, and most of the judiciary. How can you say the establishment is skewed in favour of females?’
‘I’m not talking about the few men at the top, they’re the problem.’
The caller’s voice was rising, which should make him easier to spot. Witnesses might notice a man shouting angrily into his phone in a London park.
‘Men with power and wealth will always have as much female attention as they want,’ AryanBoy went on. ‘They know women will be competing with each other to date them, marry them, have affairs with them, especially if they have good looks as well. I’m talking about men like me. The women who should be ours by right are falling over themselves to be with the top twenty per cent of men. The eighty per cent get left behind.’
‘Should be yours by right?’ Emma questioned, in a small voice.
‘Woman was put on this earth to be a comfort to man, to be his helpmeet, read your fucking Bible, Emma!’
Silence, in the booth and the general office. There was something quietly terrifying about the man’s rage.
‘OK, here we go,’ the trace officer muttered. Joesbury glanced back to see the half dozen screens monitoring CCTV footage showing different shots of the area around St James’s Park.
