No Choice

A psychological thriller set in a dystopic future England, in which a reluctant government 'investigator' becomes infatuated with the woman he is investigating.

No Choice

 

James Arren first saw her as a picture in a case file - Evelyn Hale, thirty-two years old, head of Lanham’s School of Excellence and the woman he would investigate for the next two months.

            He felt the cold hand of dread clutching at his heart. It was always harder with a woman - some protective instinct, he thought, must make dehumanizing them harder for him. He looked up at Director Jack, sitting across the smooth glass of the table, and the man looked back at him with poised calm. James tried not to let his nervousness show in his face.

            ‘This is an important case, James’, Director Jack said. ‘Lanham’s School is quickly becoming a well-respected private institution, despite its lack of government support. Frankly, I would rather have given this case to Howard. Your commitment to your work has been lacking over the last few months’.

            ‘I apologize, sir’, James stammered. ‘I will - I am -committed, I assure you’.

            ‘We will see, won’t we?’, Director Jack said, smiling his broad smile. He looked almost like a man from an old cigarette ad, with his handsome, masculine face and slicked-back hair streaked with silver - but it was as if he had been filtered through some distorting lens that stretched his features, replacing a look of friendly confidence with one of leering insanity. James had always felt nervous in his presence, but now his work was under scrutiny the feeling had grown closer to terror.

            He looked back down at the file in his hand, feeling a growing warmth on the back of his neck. Evelyn Hale stared back at him.

            She had a small, firm mouth and dark eyes, and an almost masculine sternness in her expression. Her sharp nose and short, cropped hair reminded James of the prickly secretary in the Counter-terrorism Agency Building’s lobby. It was fitting she worked in a school, he thought - and then he caught himself before he thought any further. It was best not to think of her as anything more than a picture in a file.

            James rose, and after muttering goodbye to Director Jack he made his way out of the Preliminary Investigations Unit and down through the sleek corridors of the Counter-terrorism Agency Building, trying to subdue the panic that seemed to be rising up his throat. Anonymous faces in suits passed him in the corridors, and he glanced at them, hoping to catch a glimpse of someone with a similar feeling. The faces stared back at him blankly.

 

*

 

            James drove down to the quiet town where Evelyn lived and began his investigation, and after a few days he had lapsed back into his familiar state of chronic, dreary boredom, tinged with an underlying dread he tried not to notice. He smoked cigarettes absent-mindedly, sitting in his car outside Lanham’s School of Excellence, waiting for Evelyn to finish work.

            She never left before seven. Watching her, as she walked out through the school’s glass doors and over to her car, filled James with envy. She looked so at ease; her movements were always slow, and her face seemed completely relaxed, as if she had just risen from a light sleep. It made her look supremely confident, which made James all the more conscious of his own nervous rigidity. He was always on edge, he thought - that was his problem.

 

            Lanham’s School of Excellence wasn’t mentioned in the government-audited school ranking report, and the only comments about it in the remaining legal publications were brief and dismissive; one described it as ‘an old-fashioned relic, devoid of any tolerance, humility or morality’, another as ‘a symptom of the desperate need for further integration of state and independent schools’. It charged exorbitant tuition fees - and had a two year waiting list.

            It taught the children of the last remaining members of the middle classes - sons and daughters of businessmen, engineers, doctors. It taught them almost nothing but maths, science, and, above all, how to learn it. It avoided politics, psychology, and philosophy altogether, as if they didn’t exist. It skipped large swathes of history, whenever events resonated too close to those of modern England. Lanham’s School towed the government line " by never going anywhere near it.

 

            The first two weeks of James’s investigation passed in slow apathy. He would watch Evelyn’s school from early morning to late evening, and then he would follow her home and watch her house, flicking lazily through her file. Most nights he would see nothing but the glow of light from her windows, but sometimes she would forget to close the blinds and James would watch guiltily as she cooked dinner, worked at her laptop or read an old book at the kitchen table. He tried not to notice the feminine fragility of her arms, or how, when she was bent over her laptop with a hand pushing her hair back in frustration, she looked as utterly unselfconscious as a young girl.

            While he worked he noted all the cars that seemed to pass by the school frequently, watching to see if Director Jack was checking up on him. He noticed one car appearing every few days - an old, black saloon - and for a while his mind raced with the fear of possibility; but then he thought of just how conspicuous the car looked, with its gleaming black hood and menacing grill, and he thought there was no chance Director Jack would have him tailed with such a noticeable car.

            However, in the boredom of a string of identical days, James’s paranoia never quite left him. It would be a while before he could bug the classrooms in the school, and until then he was stuck in his car with nothing but his thoughts. He found himself, more often than not, thinking of Evelyn, and wondering what his investigation might find. Her file reeked of secrecy; she had no known friends or spouses, and her family consisted of her mother, who lived on a remote Scottish island. It was the mark of someone with something to hide. Perhaps she was teaching unofficial classes somewhere, or was a financial backer of one of the outlawed political organisations. The thought worried James, and he realised - as he often had in recent cases - he was already hoping his mark was innocent.

 

            On the second Sunday of James’s investigation he saw what he had been dreading - Evelyn’s silver car pulling out of the school gates early. He followed, and she headed off in the direction of her home. He told himself she was just going home early, and that he had nothing to worry about, but he couldn’t quite get rid of the sinking feeling in his stomach.

            Soon they made it to the quiet road that ran past Evelyn’s house, and James was relieved to see her turn off onto it. He followed a few moments later, then parked up on the side of the pavement and waited for her to turn into her drive. It was some way down the road, which made it hard to tell just how far she had to go. He waited, two, three, five seconds, watching for the red glow of Evelyn’s brake lights. Her car kept on moving, shrinking smaller and smaller, until it was nothing but a silver line in the distance.

            She was going somewhere.

            At that moment Evelyn took a left turn and disappeared. James breathed in deeply, started his car and headed down the road after her, forcing himself to keep to a calm pace. He was living his fear now, he thought - and there was nothing he could do but accept it. As he drove he peered through the gaps in the hedges on his left, trying to catch a glimpse of Evelyn’s car.

            He took the left, leaning across his steering wheel to try and see down the road. He had been too slow; The road was empty. There was a crossroads not too far along the road, and James knew immediately that he was in danger of losing her. He sped forwards, hoping he might catch the glimpse of Evelyn’s car he needed - just enough to tell him where she was going. The car’s engine roared, but he knew he had to take the risk of being heard. He wondered, momentarily, why he felt so terrified at the thought of losing her.

            He slammed on his brakes as he drew up to the crossroads, and his car screeched across the tarmac. James was thrown forwards, and the steering wheel pressed into his chest. He looked both ways and saw two stretches of road - both empty.

           

            Without thinking James turned right and surged forwards. The road was long and winding, but he could see far enough down it to know Evelyn had to have turned off somewhere to lose him -that was, assuming she had even turned right in the first place. He had lost his marks before, a few times, and Director Jack had found out - twice. A third time might mean the loss of his job, he thought, and what he would do then he didn’t know. He had heard rumours of past investigators who, after being suspected of working against the agency, had found that they couldn’t get a job anywhere, as if they had been infected by some invisible plague. The rumours didn’t say what these men did after that.

            He took the first turn off the road and followed it as it winded out through the country, his hope waning with every passing minute. A low sun had glazed everything with a warm light, and it looked to James as if a filter had turned the world to a haze of sepia. Occasionally, when the road veered towards the sun, James’s car was filled with a sudden blast of light, and it seemed as if he was driving towards some vast, world-ending explosion. He thought, with cynical amusement, how simple it would be for his life to end in such a way, and how calm he would feel in the knowledge that everything would be over in one quick flash.

            The road had taken him up to the crest of a hill, and there the hedgerows on either side fell away, and James saw fields laid out like blankets all around him. On his right, at the end of a sloping decline, an old oak tree stood on the edge of a field. It was turned to a black silhouette by the sun, but below it the roof of a car flashed for a blinding second.

James pulled up on the opposite side of the road. He noticed his heart pumping frantically, and his muscles pulling tight across his shoulders.       There was what looked like an old walkers trail running down the side of the field. James could see the silhouetted oak, but the car was hidden behind the leaves of the crop. Then he saw her; she walked out from behind the leaves, facing away from him, and stopped.

She stood, proudly straight, her hands hanging at her side, and looked away across the land. She was still wearing her clothes from work, but she had slung her jacket over her shoulder, and the clean white of her shirt seemed impossibly bright amongst the brown and gold of the world around her. James thought of all the pictures in newspapers he had seen of the businessmen he had told himself he hated - the pictures he had stared at, his eyes held by some undefined curiosity - and he realised he had the same feeling now, because Evelyn had that same look of arrogant confidence he had seen in the pictures. She looked, with the breeze pulling against her shirt and her hair flying out behind her, like a modern conquistador surveying a new world.

Two realisations struck James in the same instant - that he shouldn’t have stopped so openly, and that she was turning towards him. They had struck too late. Before he could react she was facing him, looking straight at his car. James knew, even as he felt a sudden lurch of panic, that he had to look as if he had stopped for nothing more than a look at the view - so, with slow, nervous movements, he opened his car door and stepped out. His eyes shifted over his surroundings, but he saw nothing. He was conscious only of the need not to look at her for a few moments -and that to look at her was all he wanted to do. He forced himself to wait a moment longer, then he turned back towards her.

Evelyn was still looking at him, but now she was walking towards him as well. Her face was blank and unmoving, but she walked with such purpose that James was certain, even as his mind searched desperately for some other explanation, that she knew exactly what he was doing there. He held her gaze and smiled feebly, still clinging to the hope that she might think he was no more than passing stranger.

She made it to the opening of the trail, stopped, and stared at him for a few moments, offering no explanation. Then she spoke:

‘I know who you are’.

Her words hung in the air. James was struck dumb, unable to accept what was happening. ‘What do you mean?’, he stammered.

‘I know who you are. I know you are following me’.

‘What? That’s - that’s preposterous-‘

‘Don’t try and deny it’, she said, and her lips quivered slightly. James realised that, under the calm of her voice and the cool blankness of her face, she was murderously angry.

‘The government sent you’, she said.

‘No… that’s not-‘

‘The government sent you’, she said again. James’s hope slipped away from him. He nodded.

‘You’re one of the - investigators’

James nodded again, and Evelyn took a sudden deep breath, as if trying to keep control of her anger - but the sternness in her face was gone, and it looked to James as if, instead of anger, she was hiding fear. James remembered, suddenly, what his investigation could mean for her.

‘If there was ever any God I wanted to believe in’, she said, her voice low, ‘he would damn you to hell’.

Her words struck James like a fist. ‘No… I… I don’t want to…’, he half-whispered,  I’m on your side…’

‘I know’, Evelyn said, ‘that’s what makes it worse’.

James lowered his eyes, unable to look at the cruel, unmoving face of the woman in front of him any longer. He heard the sudden scrape of her feet on the road as she turned away, but the sound seemed distant. He was conscious only of a low, burning sense of guilt building within him, and a dim awareness, hidden in some corner of his mind, that he deserved it.

 

*

 

            ‘… so if you could come in as soon as possible, James, we’ll talk’, Director Jack’s voice said over the telephone, ‘yes, to do with your report… I’ll explain further in person. Ok’. James hung up and stared vacantly at the dirt-streaks that ran down his windscreen.

Since James’s meeting with Evelyn, something had changed - and it wasn’t just that Evelyn now knew she was being investigated. Everything James did now seemed laced with some inexplicable, unimaginable terror, and he felt as if behind every corner some catastrophic disaster awaited him. The brief moments of human contact he had, when he stopped at the off-licence after Evelyn had gone to bed, were stressful ordeals that made him sweat through his clothes. The moments of boredom were unbearable.

He had searched every recess of his mind for some answer to Evelyn’s damnation of him - and he had found nothing. He had told himself he didn’t need anything from her, that he had had no choice - and then he had blurred his mind with drink every night to avoid the dim, half-conscious thought that he was lying to himself.

Then, after two weeks, he had submitted his first report on Evelyn. Director Jack’s call had come later that day.

            Now he was sat in his car, conscious only of a constant, sickening pain in his stomach. It was exhaustion and nerves rolled into one twisted ball of agony. James knew it was only the beginning of his torture; the pain would grow to its climax the next day, when he would return to London, and meet with Director Jack in the shining head-quarters of the Counter-terrorism Agency.

 

The next day came all too soon, and it was such a dull, grey day that even the CTA building looked drab, its sheets of glass reflecting nothing but the murky outlines of the surrounding structures. Once he was Inside the building it was another world -everything had a smooth gloss to it, and lights winked on the surfaces indicating buttons that would respond at the slightest touch. It was a strange thing, James thought, that everything physical about the CTA was so precise, so clinically clean, while its jurisdiction was almost completely undefined and its true purpose was nothing but a stream of vague utterings repeated endlessly by every vice-director of every sub-section.

James made his way through the labyrinth of grey-blue corridors, silver elevators and unknown faces, feeling as if he was being pulled against his will. It seemed to him as if every nerve in his body was screaming at him, telling him to turn and run out of the building, but his mind was powerless to stop the steady step of his feet - just as it was powerless to stop the shaking of his hands, and the sweat that ran down his back.

Soon he made it to the offices of the Preliminary Investigations Unit. The door opened at the touch of a button, and the recognition of his fingerprint. James stepped inside, rigid with terror. His mouth was as dry as sand.

There was no one in the main office, so James made his way to Director Jack’s own office; he found the door open, and he saw the director’s greased-back hair bowed down as he examined a file. At the sound of James’s footsteps the director looked up and smiled broadly, and put the file on the glass coffee table in front of him. He looked perfectly warm and welcoming, but it seemed to James there was an underlying sarcasm to his smile, and that the director was merely mocking him with an obviously false show of good will. James returned the smile sheepishly.

‘James’, Director Jack said, ‘come in, take a seat’.

James did so. He saw the name on the file Director Jack had been reading: Evelyn Hale.

‘Would you like a coffee, or anything?’

‘Er - no… thank you’, James said, even though he was desperate for a cup of water. The offer had taken him by surprise.

‘Well, let’s get down to it then’, Director Jack said, dropping the warmth from his voice abruptly. ‘I’m disappointed in your work on this assignment. I’ve read your file, and it’s very sparse. Very sparse indeed’.

James shifted in his seat. ‘Yes… well, I’m sorry sir, but -but there really was nothing more to say… she doesn’t do all that much’.

‘That isn’t what I want to hear. I want more details. Never mind if she doesn’t do much - I want to know how she doesn’t do much. For instance, here you say she reads sometimes in the evenings’.

‘Yes’.

‘Well?’

‘I - er’.

‘What else might I want to know?’

‘Well - what book’, James said with effort.

Director Jack nodded sarcastically. ‘Exactly. Is she reading worthless romance novels? Classics from a bygone era? The Communist Manifesto? I want more details, James’.

‘Yes sir’, James said.

‘But the most pitiful section in your report is on Miss Hale’s personality - you have here the she is “hard-working and passionate”, and that she is “stern and professional” in her manner with her co-workers. I could have told you that from looking at her CV. I want to know more, James. I want to know what she’s like’.

            James’s mind stumbled for words. She was - what? He could think of nothing specific to say, but his thoughts formed a vague feeling that seemed to mean: someone to be admired.

            ‘I’m… not sure’, James mumbled.

            ‘Would you say she is cold? Emotionless?’

            ‘No!’, James half-shouted, ‘no - I think… probably not’.

            Director Jack’s eyes lit up. His face remained sternly blank, but James could see a smile in his eyes, and James knew he had revealed something he shouldn’t have.

            ‘What made you say that?’, Director Jack said

            ‘What? Oh - nothing’, James muttered, ‘I mean, I don’t think she’s emotionless, really…’

            Director Jack said nothing for a few moments, but he remained staring at James longer than necessary.

            ‘Your heart’s not in this case, is it?’, Director Jack said, smiling.

            ‘No, sir - I am fully committed to the case, but’-.

            ‘It’s ok. I understand the problem now’.

            ‘What do you mean?’

            Director Jack laughed - it was a slow, almost forced chuckle, and James felt his neck itch with heat. ‘Don’t worry yourself’, Director Jack said, ‘I only understand that you don’t understand - which is perfectly understandable. You have no idea why we are investigating Miss Hale, and therefore you aren’t fully committed to your work. After all, why would the PIU want to investigate such an honest, hard-working individual? I’m afraid you will just have to trust me on this one. Just continue your investigation for another month, and give me a report with details, and we will decide whether to shelve the case or continue. I know you can do it - you gave me the most useful information on Miss Hale today’.

            ‘I did?’ James gasped. Director Jack laughed again.

            ‘This case is an important one - for both of us, James. Just keep doing what you are doing’.

            ‘Yes sir… thank you sir…’ James said, then he waited, forcing himself not to jump up and dash out of the room.

            ‘We’re all finished’, Director Jack said, smiling cheerily.

           

In the sleek corridor outside the door to Section 7E James found the nearest bathroom, and he splashed his face with the cool water like a man who had just discovered an oasis in a desert. He looked up at the mirror in front of him and saw the water dripping from his face, his damp hair stuck to his forehead, and his eyes wild with fear. Then he saw the red dot light of a camera in the upper corner of the room watching him - and he rushed back out into the corridor, possessed by a screaming, desperate need to be out of the building and away.

 

*

 

James’s had thought his meeting with Director Jack had promised either destruction or safety - either proof that the man knew what had happened, or proof of his ignorance - but he had been wrong. Instead he had been left in a kind of torturous limbo, where all he could desire was to finally know, for better or worse. He felt as if he was hurtling towards some dark, mysterious finality, whose identity was guaranteed to be worse than anything he tried to imagine.

            He had escaped, he thought, but only temporarily. He returned to the endless hours of watching and waiting outside Evelyn’s school, then following her home to wait outside her house and watch her shadow move across the windows. Occasionally he listened in on her lessons and meetings, and he felt a stab of shame every time he heard her voice. His days passed in weary apprehension, and his nights were short, fragmented ordeals of cheap spirit, interrupted sleep and the smell of cigarette smoke.

            One night, a week after his meeting with Director Jack, James stumbled to his window, feeling a sudden need for cool air on his face. He opened it and thrust his head out, his eyes closed, wanting only to feel the pleasure of a single, uninterrupted instance of pure sensation - a feeling that would blast away the agonizing thoughts that infested his brain with every waking moment. After a few seconds he opened his eyes and saw, parked below him, the old black saloon he had seen following him before.

            It was facing straight at his window, and it seemed it was looking directly at him. The light from the streetlamp was reflected in its tinted black windscreen as a white circle, like the eye of an animal. Streaks of yellow cut across the edges of its hood. In the quiet, grey emptiness of the street it gleamed like a black jewel amongst a pile of stone. James mind reeled with panic, and he jerked himself back inside, running a shaking hand through his hair.

            It was a mockery - a blatant mockery of his helplessness, and a gloating show of power from Director Jack. The man didn’t just want him followed - he wanted him to know he was being followed - he wanted him to suffer the pain of constant, aching fear and unanswered questions. The bottle of whisky stood on the edge of James’s cluttered desk, and he reached for it almost on instinct. It didn’t matter, he thought - it shouldn’t matter. He still had no choice.

 

The month stretched on, and the boundaries of James’s life seemed to close around him ever tighter. The black saloon appeared and disappeared like a ghost, intermittently, sometimes passing him near the school, sometimes watching his apartment from the street. At first he hated seeing it, but after a while he hated its absence more - while it was there, watching him, it was proof Director Jack’s suspicions hadn’t been fully answered, but once it had gone the question hung in James’s mind: just how much did the man know? He had spoken to his mark, the woman he was supposed to be invisible to; he had even admitted who he was to her. That was, in the eyes of the agency, the cardinal sin.

            Evelyn hadn’t changed at all, despite their meeting. James followed her out into the country again one Sunday, and this time she drove for hours, finally stopping at another walker’s trail that curled round the edges of a dense forest, many miles from her home. He watched as she walked off into the distance, and he wished she would look behind her, or show any sign of caution, any hint that she remembered she was being watched. She never did.

            The last remaining light to James’s days were the times he heard her speak through the listening devices in the school. Her voice came, deliberate and slow, muffled slightly by the listening equipment, and James listened in complete focus - and he felt the pleasure of hearing something explained in perfect clarity, a pleasure made perverse by the fact that he was actually learning - about scientific laws, English grammar, moments of history. He liked to hear the subtle emotions in her voice; the almost indiscernible sparks of anger in the classrooms; the warmth of a smile in a morning greeting; they seemed all the more sweet from someone so perpetually controlled.

She left work an hour early one Friday evening. It was the first time she had left early on a weekday, and James couldn’t help but feel that something different would happen that evening. He followed her along the usual road back towards her home, but this time she turned off onto the ring-road that circled the town.

James wondered where she might be going. It was a dull evening, and she wasn’t headed towards the country. She knew he was following her, even if she hadn’t seen him behind her, but James couldn’t get the image of some clandestine meeting out of his mind, no matter how much he tried to persuade himself.

She left the ring-road once they had circled round the town, and they headed off down a lane that lead through a number of quiet villages and smaller towns. Most of the houses were run down, forlorn looking things, their windows dark and stained with dirt, as their old occupants had all crowded into London, for a last chance at finding a job and making a living, or fled England altogether, to live out their days in one of the last remaining prosperous countries of the world. Evelyn’s expensive, silver car looked slick and alien as it rose over the hills and dipped down the slopes of the thin road, and James felt a sense of uneasy fragility at the sight, as if Evelyn’s car was the last symbol of an affluence that was doomed to vanish around the next corner.

After a while she turned off again, down an even quieter road, flanked with overgrown, overhanging trees that shrouded everything in premature darkness. Then the mystery of her journey was over; she pulled up next to an old, red-brick pub with a sign hanging over it proclaiming its name: The Hart. James pulled to a stop at the start of the road, nestling his car amongst the overhanging leaves of the trees. He could see the glowing lights of Evelyn’s car in the distance, and he heard her car door slam shut as she stepped out.

He waited a few minutes before creeping across the road. His blood pumped heavy as he ran down, under the shadows of the hedgerow, until he was across from The Hart; then he pushed himself through the hedgerow, muttering curses as the branches caught on his clothes and cut his arms. Once he was through he turned and peered back through the gap he had made, his fingers tingling in the cold.

The Hart was a simple, old-fashioned place, and its windows were glowing gaily with light. Inside the tables were flocked with well-dressed men and women, and James could hear the faint sound of talking and laughter breaking out into the evening air. James saw Evelyn talking with a waiter, who took her through the bar and out of sight briefly, before they reappeared in another room, and Evelyn pointed over to a table by the window. It was then that James saw the three other people with her; another woman, older, with greying hair and a sharp nose; an older, bald man with a grave face, and a younger man, with glasses and a sweep of boyish brown hair. They were smiling and laughing with the waiter as they sat down - even Evelyn, and James realised he had never seen her laugh. He caught himself wishing he could hear her as well.

They sat down at the table, and the waiter brought them menus and a bottle of wine. Some dim recess of James’s mind still assumed that this was an illegal meeting of some kind, even with Evelyn’s knowledge of him watching her, but as they talked and laughed and drank the realisation dawned on James slowly -these were nothing more than Evelyn’s friends, and she was out for nothing more than a meal. The faces around the table were smiling with merriment, yet there was a stark intelligence in their eyes that spoke of something more than just a moment’s pleasurable distraction. It didn’t look like an escape into the bleariness of drink - it looked like a celebration. Evelyn, glowing in the warm gold light, looked simply and earnestly joyous, almost like a child. She had things to celebrate, James thought.

James sat crouched and shivering behind the hedgerow for some time, watching in resolute focus; and just as the cold air slowly chilled his body, jealousy began to seep into his mind. It was not jealousy for the dark-haired young man eating with Evelyn - it was jealousy for Evelyn herself. Seeing her there, bathed in golden light, calm and radiantly happy, made James excruciatingly conscious of the vast gulf between her life and his. Then his jealousy faded to regret - regret as he realised that, even if they physically swapped places at that moment, even if he were the one eating fine food and drinking luxuriously expensive wine, in the company of smiling friends for a few hours - he would not be able to enjoy any of it. It would be a fraud against his own person, and all the pleasures of the evening would feel false -because he would still be who he was, and he would deserve none of it.

Suddenly Evelyn’s face changed, and, as if she had heard his thoughts, she slowly, deliberately, looked out of the window. The glowing smile had vanished, and it was replaced with the plain, merciless look of calm James had seen when she had spoken to him. She stared out - whether at him, or somewhere near him, he couldn’t tell - and she stared with such purpose James felt certain the look was meant for him to see. He thought there was some message she was trying to communicate too him, but all he felt was a lurch of sickening guilt in his stomach.

A sudden desire took hold of him - a desire to do anything, anything at all, but continue watching Evelyn while hiding like a frightened animal in the hedgerow. He stood up and forced his way back through the hedge, jerking his arms through in savage disregard for the pain as the branches cut his skin. He knew only that some desire had taken hold of him, and that when he knew where the desire had come from he would be able to lie to himself no longer.

He turned and looked across the shadowed street where he had come from, and he saw an orange point of light floating in the darkness. It took a minute for his eyes to adjust, and then he caught the faint outlines of something surrounding it - then the orange light moved slightly, and glowed with an increasing intensity.

First, James realised that the orange light was the point of a cigarette - then he realised that the faint, shining outlines he could make out were the edges of the black saloon, the threat he had all but forgotten barely a moment earlier. He froze, and watched the orange light move again. He caught the faintest glimpse of a man’s face, for barely a fraction of a second, before it disappeared into the darkness once more. Then he heard the sound of a car window sliding down, and the orange point sailed out and disappeared into the blackness of the night.

A sudden thought struck James like a flash of lightning. It suddenly seemed so obvious - he was the link between Evelyn and the agency - he was the hand of Director Jack, and of all that posed a threat to her. However little they trusted him, he still had the power to save her. As long as Director Jack’s suspicions remained suspicions, he had a chance. He turned back and pushed his way through the hedge once more, with his mind focused on this single resolve like the point of a blade.

*

 

‘…I’ve been through your second report, James - good work, it seems you took what I said last time to heart. This is a much more detailed report’.

            ‘Thank you, sir’, James stammered. He was in Director Jack’s office, standing awkwardly by the leather sofa he wasn’t sure if he should sit on. Outside it had grown suddenly dark, and the lights from the rising buildings seemed too faint to put up a fight.

            Director Jack went to one of the polished-wood cupboards behind him, and from it he took two tumblers and a distiller of some amber spirit; James frowned.

            ‘A celebration, if you will’, Director Jack said, smiling a mischievous smile.

            ‘What for?’

            Director Jack poured the drinks. ‘Today is an important day’, he said. ‘We can both relax. I can finally be completely frank with you’.

            ‘What?’

            Director Jack handed James the drink, and he took an immediate gulp of the liquid. It was a bourbon of some kind. James hardly tasted it. Director Jack took his own drink and leaned back in his chair, smiling openly.

‘I’m recommending Evelyn Hale for prosecution’, he said, his voice even and measured - his smile never left his face. James gripped his glass. He thought it might shatter in his hand.

‘Why?’ he gasped.

Director Jack stared at him for some time, as if savouring the moment. ‘You forget yourself, James’, he said slowly. ‘You’re as wide open as a book’.

‘But… you have no evidence!’

Director Jack chuckled, and seemed to grimace to himself as he did so.  ‘You don’t get it, do you?’

‘What… do you mean?’

‘No Evidence?’ Well, that depends on what you think I’m looking for. Our old concerns are fading fast, thanks to the PIU’s successes over the past few years. Our new concerns are much more subtle - subtle, yet ever so important. It doesn’t take a genius to stop the dissenter’s magazines and movements and political parties, but what about stopping them before they even come into existence? What about undermining their cause, their requirement, their origin? That requires a different strategy’.

‘What - evidence - are you talking about?’ James said, his voice barely audible. Director Jack shrugged nonchalantly, as if he was merely about to reveal something that should have been obvious. It was clear he was enjoying himself.

‘I look at you, James - that’s where I find my evidence. I look in your eyes and I see terror and love, as clear and naked as a baby, and just as helpless. That is all the evidence I need’.

‘I… I don’t know… what you’re talking about…’ James mumbled, staring at the floor.

‘Love!’ Director Jack shouted, slamming his glass down on the coffee table. ‘You love her, you pathetic idiot! I can see it in your eyes’.

‘What does that have to do with anything’, James muttered.

Director Jack sighed, as if preparing himself for some excruciatingly boring duty. ‘You have worked for me for years, and I have always suspected your commitment to your work, to the agency - but now I see you stumbling around like a drunken fool, terrified of incriminating Miss Hale, and yet still thinking of your miserable self. It was easy to make the connections.

‘You love her, and in doing so you condemn her - and yourself. She must be an exceptional person to drag you out of your stupor, there is no doubt - and exceptional people will not do, James. Of all the dangers to us, to our system, to our power, exceptional people are the greatest. Whatever she is teaching, no matter how innocent and alien it might seem to the boys in Downing Street, she will churn out bright young things just waiting to think for themselves. She is moulding the minds of our young too well, giving them far too much power, too much resistance. Mediocre is what we want in education - mediocre is safe. It is the mind that is dangerous to us, so it is the mind we must fight against. You wanted to protect her - well, you should have treated her like all the others you helped to destroy.

‘And as for you, to fall in love with her is the final proof -you’re a coward, James, and an even worse one than I ever expected. You’re a traitor to your own soul. You’ve been hiding from yourself all this time, unable to stand up for anything you believe in, working for an organisation that has long since abandoned such naïve notions as morality, justice or honesty " notions you still have in some wretched corner of your brain. You love her - and she is exactly what you have been working to destroy all these years. Even I feel some kind of pity, looking at you now’.

 ‘Shut up!’ James screamed, and he raised his hand as if to hurl the glass tumbler at Director Jack’s face - instead he let it fall and splinter against the laminate floor. Whisky splashed against his trouser leg. He couldn’t bear to look at the man in front of him, but he felt his presence approach, like a dark blotch signifying some monstrous, unthinkable horror. Director Jack leant in close to him and spoke low in his ear.

‘And this is the final joke to end this miserable farce - you will continue just the same, won’t you, James? You’ll keep on pretending, evading, lying to yourself, just to save a few more years of your worthless existence. You should attack me now - you should try and kill me - that’s what you want, isn’t it? And if you can’t summon up the courage for that, you should try and escape. People manage it, sometimes, and find some miserable corner of the world to rot out their days watching their backs with every waking moment.

 ‘But you won’t, will you? You hold up Evelyn Hale as a heroine, yet you haven’t any of her so called virtues - her confidence, her integrity, her happiness. You will go through with the prosecution, just as if you were fully committed to convicting her. You will help to destroy her, because you haven’t the courage to do otherwise. You will do as I say in the desperate hope of preserving your worthless existence for a week, a day, a minute longer’.

James shook his head slowly, still staring down at the ground. Tears ran down his cheeks. ‘No…no…’, he mumbled, as much to himself as to Director Jack. He felt as if his entire body was engulfed in burning shame, as if his mind had ceased to function in every capacity except its ability to feel, as if pain had become his sole purpose and possibility.

‘I expect Evelyn will have a trail to attend in the next few weeks’, Director Jack said calmly. ‘You will provide evidence for the jury, and the depravity of your existence will be fully revealed to the both of us. Now get out of my office’.

James left the room without a word, stumbling as if he were suffering from shell-shock. The feeling that had become his reality, that seemed to be infused within everything he saw, every sense of movement he felt, every sound of his steps on the polished laminate floor, was terror - blind terror, directed at everything and nothing, as the single absolute of his existence. It was terror for the fate that awaited him if he did what he knew he should do - and terror for what it meant about himself if he didn’t.

 

*

 

Three days later charges were brought against Evelyn under an old, well used law which had criminalized ‘encouraging the development of intolerant beliefs’, and a quiet court hearing was organised to decide whether she would be barred from the field of education. James’s found an envelope under his door requesting his presence at the hearing; then he found another envelope the next day, from Director Jack. The first had been expected - the second sent him reeling with almost physical disgust.

It contained his file on Evelyn, plus a single extra sheet of paper, titled ‘Court Statement’. It had been constructed using many of the phrases James had written in the file, only they had been twisted and added to, almost seamlessly, as if James was expected to pretend to himself that he was the author. It was the thought of reading the statement, with Evelyn watching, that sickened him - for the woman described in the statement was not the same woman he had investigated. Evelyn was now the emotionless, intolerant figurehead of the morally backwards past, who terrified children with her cold glances; her commitment to science, facts and reason was proof of her ‘abhorrence of differing opinions’, and her minimal social life was evidence of her ‘psychopathy’; the fact that the school had produced a series of exceptional students, who had happened to be Caucasian males, suggested a ‘lack of respect for diversity and the troubles of minorities and women’.

This was what James was expected to read, in an official courtroom, in front of a judge sworn to uphold justice, fairness and truth in protection of the innocent, with objective reality as his only source of reasoning; only, the truth he had to find was hidden under a layer of murky filth, and the innocence of Evelyn was to depend upon the judge’s definition of ‘encouraging’, ‘development’, and ‘intolerant beliefs’. James knew, in that same courtroom, the defence attorney would be a friend of Director Jack’s, and would put up a mockery of a legal defence in exchange for some minor favour, while the terrified jury would swing whichever way the judge decided, in fear of the sudden retribution rumoured to follow the defiance of a justice. James told himself, in grim self-mockery of his old habitual mantra, that it didn’t matter - that he had no choice - but the unspoken premise at the back of his mind, the premise that had caused all of his chronic terror, was that he had always had a choice - and that he still had one now.

 

On the day of the hearing James returned to London. He caught himself, as he passed all the familiar landmarks, thinking: for the last time. A strange feeling of abject unreality had taken hold of him, and it seemed to be present in every action he took, every vibration he felt through the wheel, and every sign that flashed past his window and drew him closer to London. It had been easy in the past two weeks to tell himself he had changed -that he was on Evelyn’s side now, and would refuse to condemn her - but the closer he got to London, the more unimaginable, and terrifying, the hearing became.

It was not long before he was walking through the stuffy halls of the court building, wondering at how he managed to keep his legs moving him forward, and at how he managed to stutter out a few questions asking where to go. He eventually made it to the witness waiting room, where he sat and watched the unknown faces passing in the corridor outside. He thought of how the men that he saw might be lawyers coming from another mockery of a trial - and how they might be heading home to their loved ones thinking: I had no choice.

            After an hour of anxious waiting a court official summoned him, and he followed the man through one last corridor, his legs shaking. A pair of great wooden doors creaked open before him, and then he was in the courtroom itself. He felt as if he were being pulled by a chain, like some helpless animal, towards the witness box - his equivalent of an execution chamber.

            He looked up at the judge - the man who was to decide both his and Evelyn’s future. A pair of small, filmy eyes return his gaze. Under the eyes the man’s bottom lip protruded like a swollen blister, shining with moisture. The rest of his face was plump and pale, and as free of blemishes as a smooth cheese - the judge’s wig acted as the cheese’s skin. James had expected to feel intimidated at the sight of the man, who he had pictured as having all the domineering authority of a school headmaster; instead all he felt was a kind of nervous confusion. It was like entering the throne room of a palace and finding, instead of a fearsome king, a child.

            As James entered the box he turned to Evelyn. She looked as if she had grown an inch taller; she wore a plainly formal grey business suit and the expression of a monk. No matter what she had heard in the last hour, it didn’t seem to have touched her at all - as if the trial were happening to someone else, miles away, and meant nothing more to her than the distant memory of a nightmare.

            ‘Go ahead’, the Judge said, motioning at the prosecution attorney below him. The attorney rose and cleared his throat.

            ‘Your name is James Duncan Arren, is that correct?’

            ‘Yes’, James said.

            ‘Please state your date of birth for the records’

            ‘Nineteenth of June 1990’.

            ‘And your occupation?’

            ‘Investigator for the Preliminary Investigations Unit of the CTA’.

            The questions continued, and James answered, his mind elsewhere. In his hands he was clutching the court statement Director Jack had given him - he had not been able to persuade himself not to bring it. He thought, with a flash of panic, that he still had no firm conviction of just what he was going to do.

            ‘What we must first establish’, the attorney said, ‘is the character of Miss Hale. Mr Arren, you investigated Miss Hale, due to an anonymous tip-off about her running of the school, for two months, is that correct?’

            ‘Yes’, James said, grimacing at the ease with which a lie of that kind could be spoken so simply in a court of law.

            ‘And during those two months you followed her every waking moment, investigated her work in the school and her personal life?’

            ‘Yes’.

            ‘Would you say you have gained a good understanding of Ms Hale’s character?’, the attorney asked.

            ‘Yes…’, James said, his voice low.

            ‘Describe, in your own words, a typical day for Ms Hale’.

            James began his description, but it was not long before the attorney interrupted:

            ‘Does she ever meet with friends, family - any form of socializing?’

            ‘Not really. That is, not very often’, James said.

            ‘It says in your statement that she met with a group of old work friends for a meal one evening. That is all. Is that what you mean by not often?’

            ‘Well - yes, that is what I mean’.

            The prosecution attorney remained silent for a few moments, and watched James from under his brows with a strange kind of intensity. Then he said:

            ‘Would you say Evelyn has a somewhat cold personality?’

            James breathed in deeply, and looked down at the statement in his hands. He saw the attorney’s words written on the paper. He saw the path that had been laid out for him.

            ‘I - I’m not sure cold is the correct word…’ James said, his voice wavering.

            The prosecution attorney frowned. ‘What word would you prefer?’, he said bluntly.

            ‘I would rather say she has a calm personality’.

            ‘Ok, a calm personality’, the attorney said slowly, looking at James with a piercing glare. He shuffled through his notes for a moment, then said:

            ‘In what sense, Mr Arren, would you say Miss Hale is calm? For instance, what is her relationship with her colleagues like?’

            ‘She is - quite reserved with her colleagues’.

            ‘You could say she is, emotionally, quite distant?’

            ‘Well, I wouldn’t put it that way, but’-

            The Judge’s gruff voice cut through: ‘You are the witness for the prosecution, Mr Arren?’

             ‘I swore to tell the truth, your honour’, James said, looking up at the judge.

            ‘Go on’, the judge growled, and it seemed his glazed eyes had come to life and were focused intently on James.

            The prosecution attorney cleared his throat. ‘The real question we must answer today is not exclusively to do with Ms Hale’s personality - rather, it is to do with how her personality affects her professional ability. Mr Arren, could you tell us what effects Ms Hale’s demeanour has on how she runs Lanham’s School?’

            ‘The school focuses on maths, the sciences and design related subjects’-

            ‘The court has already heard the details of Lanham’s School’s curriculum’, the Judge interrupted.

            ‘Ok, I’-

            ‘The question is: how is the school’s curriculum effected by Ms Hale’s character’, The Judge said impatiently.

            James glanced at the defence attorney, who was nervously shuffling his notes and staring in front of him through a pair of huge glasses. He wondered what favour the man had been given in exchange for his silence.

            ‘That is, indeed, the question’, the prosecution attorney said, nodding at James slowly.

‘Ms Hale’s curriculum suggests she has a strong respect for science, and is focused more on educating students towards their potential careers, as opposed to’-

            ‘As opposed to what?’ the attorney said, with a touch of frustration in his voice. ‘What subjects is Ms Hale sacrificing in order to pursue her agenda?’

            ‘There is no need for such… strong language, your honour’, the defence attorney stuttered, his hoarse voice sounding small in the vast courtroom. The judge ignored him.

The prosecution attorney turned to a stern looking man sitting next to him and whispered something in his ear; the man stood up.

            ‘Your honour’, the attorney said, ‘this is Dr Richard Shultz from the Educational Excellence Group - an independent body studying the best methods for educating children - he has a few words to say on Lanham’s School of Excellence’s curriculum’.

            Dr Shultz seemed to ignore everything in the room except the judge, whom he fixed with a hard gaze, his head tilted back slightly, giving him the look of a proud aristocrat. He was tall and steely in appearance, with a tanned face cut with the lines of age.

‘Your honour’, he began, ‘the curriculum presented to me can be summarized in a single term: out-dated’.

He paused for a few moments, almost as if the sentence he had uttered needed no further explanation. Then he continued:

‘I am but one of the people who has dedicated my life to the study of education - there is a whole body of people like me working for the EEG, not to mention our partners in Europe. The conclusion of every single member of these independent bodies is that there are certain subjects which are simply mandatory for a balanced education.

‘As one example, to be teaching nothing of politics to students approaching adulthood - well that is nothing but a recipe for a completely self-centred, self-important young men and women, with no care or concern for the troubles that plague the globe. To avoid the subject altogether, even in history, which I notice is completely deficient in regards to political matters, is an example of gross arrogance on the part of Ms Hale.

‘I could talk more of the deficiencies of Ms Hale’s curriculum, noting the lack of philosophy, of psychology, of world studies - all generally considered very important for young students - but there is a general theme that runs through the classrooms of Lanham’s School of Excellence, or rather a missing piece in the puzzle of education, that I consider more important. The students sit and listen to their teachers, who bestow upon them a great deal of facts " facts, according to the western world - but the students are rarely allowed to do anything. It is an accepted fact amongst my colleagues that we, as teachers, must concentrate on allowing our students to learn for themselves. We must avoid dictating the truth to our students, after all - just what do we really know? Just what can we say, with absolute certainty, is the truth? If Ms Hale’s curriculum contained any philosophy, her students might have been able to point this out to her’.

‘Well?’, the judge said suddenly, fixing his pale eyes on James ‘You’ve been following her for the last two months - how did you miss all of this?’

‘I don’t think we can assume… Mr Arren has missed anything, really…’, the defence attorney mumbled.

‘I didn’t miss anything’, James said.

He had heard Dr Shultz speaking, and had watched the judge staring at Evelyn with the blunt expression of an animal staring its prey. Now his fear had faded in the face of cold, hard hatred - hatred for what he had almost become, and what the men around him were, each in different forms.

‘I didn’t miss anything’, he said again, this time with a voice made clear with anger. ‘You are right… I’m the one who’s been following her, and I didn’t see anything to suggest what you seem to be suggesting about Ms Hale. All I saw was a woman who loves her job more than I’ve ever seen anyone love anything - and I would like to remind Dr Shultz that Lanham’s School is a private school and can teach what it wants’.

‘That depends’, the judge said.

‘Indeed it does’, Dr Shultz said, ‘it is obvious, even to the most liberal of people, that to have private institutions teaching how to make explosives, how to obtain illegal drugs, how to avoid taxes, is a matter in which the government must intervene. This situation is no different - if Ms Hale’s school is nothing but a breeding ground for selfishness, for racism, for sexism, then she must be held accountable. The psychological harm she could be causing cannot be dismissed simply for not being physical’.

‘What I want to know is what’s got into this witness’, The judge said, half to himself. He was staring at Evelyn, who was staring back at him with nothing but mild curiosity in her eyes - as one might look at an animal.

‘Nothing has “gotten in” to me’, James said, his voice rising. ‘You know it - you know what’s going on in here. The defence has been paid off. I was sent here under threat - of what, I don’t know - but I don’t care. I investigated Ms Hale. I know her better than you, and I’m telling you, she hasn’t done a damn thing wrong!’.

The judge slammed his hammer down. ‘Lose the tone, young man’, he growled. Then his face changed, and he looked away. His bulbous lips parted slightly, and a slight frown appeared on the smooth skin of his forehead - it looked as if he was thinking.

‘Say, I don’t know what this young man is talking about’, he said, facing the prosecution attorney. ‘Perhaps you had better bring your next witness in - I think we’ve heard enough’.

‘Next witness?’, James said incredulously, ‘I investigated her - who the hell else is going to provide evidence?’

‘Does the prosecution have another witness?’, the judge said.

Director Jack rose from his seat. ‘Not today, your honour -I’m afraid our second witness has been - taken ill - but we did not expect his testimony to be necessary. However, if you are happy to postpone the trial for another week he will be able to provide ample evidence for the prosecution’.

‘That sounds acceptable. Thank you, Mr Arren’.

‘There is no second witness! He’s making it up! He’s’-

‘That’s enough, Mr Arren’, the judge said sternly.

‘You can’t do this! She’s innocent. She’s done nothing wrong, God damn you! She’s’-

‘Get this lunatic out of here’, the judge barked. James felt the firm hands of the security guards grasping his arms, and he struggled as they started to pull him away. ‘No!’ he screamed, which was all he mind could manage to find the words to say. As he was dragged towards the door Director Jack appeared next to him, and murmured in his ear:

‘You see James… people like me will always win. It was truly a touching attempt at fighting me… but really, what chance do you have when I can destroy the likes of Ms Hale? So long James… the message has already been sent to all the right people. Run while you can - you never know, you might have a chance…’

The security guards jerked James away, and he looked back at Director Jack’s smiling face and cold eyes wide with pleasure. Just before the courtroom doors closed behind him he caught one last glimpse of Evelyn; she held his gaze until the great wooden doors slammed shut. The security guards dragged him through the corridors and out into the street, where they left him without a word.

 

*

 

James lighted a cigarette and leant against the wall of the court building, watching the people who passed him on the pavement below. It was strange seeing such normal-looking faces after being in the courtroom, where the people had taken on the appearance of twisted caricatures. He felt a strange, unexpected calm as he leant against the wall. His body felt as if it had been turned to rubber.

It was not long before Evelyn left the courtroom. James saw her walk down the steps of the building, and her eyes were locked on his. She approached him, just as she had done when they had first met.

‘They’ve suspended me from the school temporarily’, she said.

‘It won’t be temporary…’, James said, shaking his head. ‘the judge was hinting at a bribe. They’ll send whoever they like in as the second witness’.

‘I assumed as much’, Evelyn said quietly.

‘You look as if… as if what happened today doesn’t matter at all’.

‘It doesn’t’, Evelyn said, ‘not as much as all the days before it do’.

‘You’ll never be allowed in a school again…’ James said.

Evelyn smiled bitterly. ‘No one will. There aren’t any schools left - only buildings full of helpless children waiting for their minds to be ruined’.

Evelyn leant against the wall next to James and was silent for some time. James knew that in doing so she was as close as she could come to forgiving him.

‘I suppose you might be expecting me to thank you’, Evelyn said, ‘but I don’t think you really want, or need any thanks’.

‘What do you mean?’

Evelyn looked at him again, and there was a hint of genuine kindness in her eyes as she spoke: ‘You didn’t stand up for me in there for my benefit; you did it for yourself. You did it to save what’s left of your soul’.

‘That’s…’

‘I hope you succeeded, Mr Arren’.

‘Thank you…’ James whispered.

‘Goodbye’, Evelyn said, smiling slightly.

All James could manage was a slight nod of the head. He watched Evelyn walk away, blinking away the tears in his eyes. He knew that what had happened in the courtroom would forever remain the most important event of his life. Then, with a flick of his wrist he cast aside his cigarette and started off towards his car. ‘You never know’, he said to himself, ‘you might have a chance…’