Loyalties: part 4

The hammer falls

The Triverse is
Mid-Earth, an alternate 1970s London
Max-Earth, a vision of the 26th century
Palinor, where magic is real

Previously: DCI James Miller has been arrested on charges of corruption. He languishes in a holding cell while DI Ford and DI Morgan take their investigation to the highest levels of government…

Early shift
On duty: DI Robert Ford & DI Lois Morgan

London.
1974. December.

At night the cell walls were slick with condensation, though at least it was not so cold for it to freeze. Miller lay on the metal bunk with its paper-thin mattress and stared at the ceiling, running through one plan after another, searching for a way out.

It should never have come to this. The arrangement was always that they watched each other’s backs; Miller diverted attention away from the group’s activities, and in return he should have been immune from this exact predicament. He’d kept his end of the bargain.

Time passing was demonstrated only by the light the spilled through a tiny, mottled window at the far end of the corridor beyond the bars. At dawn he heard the tapping of feet on wet concrete and two officers arrived at his door. One of them began unlocking the cell.

“You’re being moved,” said the other.

“Where to?”

“Don’t know. Somewhere with more facilities than this place, most likely.”

“Did DI Ford arrange this?”

The officer pulled open the cell door. “Yeah, something like that. Come on: out.”

Rain spattered against the broad windows of the conference room, though the grey skies did nothing to diminish the view of London. DI Robert Ford sat in one of the plush seats, observing the tall figure of Lord John Hutchinson as the man smoked a cigarette from a comedically long holder. He wore a tight-fitting suit that emphasised his height and slender frame. He wasn’t especially old but appeared to be firmly rooted in the 1940s.

DI Morgan, next to him, nodded.

“Thank you for finding time in your schedule,” Ford said, the deference tasting like betrayal. Hutchinson was House of Lords, so it was necessary to to tread carefully.

“Not at all,” Hutchinson said. “I had my secretary shuffle a few things around. Nothing too complicated, especially if I can be of assistance.”

“There’s no delicate way to put this,” Ford continued. “Evidence has been presented to us that implicates you and your office as being involved in multiple illegal activities.”

“I see. I see, well, yes, that sounds very serious indeed.” Hutchinson, frowning, extinguished his cigarette and balanced the holder on the edge of the ashtray. He took a chair on the opposite side of the conference table and clasped his hands in front of him. “Now, what is it you need? I can have our files and records opened up to you. You’re very welcome to check anything you might need. If there’s been any wrong-doing done in my name through this office, it’s as much in my interest to root it out as it is yours.”

“Thank you for your cooperation,” Ford said, with a slight smile. “The accusations that have come to light do directly implicate you, as well as those you work with. But yes, access to your files would be appreciated.”

“I think,” Hutchinson said, “that perhaps you shouldn’t listen to rumour quite so readily. Don’t you agree? Hearsay is such an ugly, ugly thing. Can take you down all sorts of blind alleys. Red herrings, and all that. Wrong end of the proverbial stick.” He took a deep breath, smiled. “But still, yes. You’ll have access to whatever you need by the end of the day. And if you have any questions, ask away.”

Morgan opened her notebook. “How would you characterise your relationship with Detective James Miller?”

“Characterise it?” Hutchinson looked to the ceiling, as if summoning the words. “Amiable, I suppose. He’s a prominent officer of the Metropolitan Police, so our paths have crossed from time to time. A dreadful shame, these accusations against him.”

Ford crossed his arms. “What dealings have you had with him?”

“Dealings? Gosh, what a nefarious word. We both work here in the Joint Council tower, detective. Like I say, our paths have crossed. Sometimes the access afforded me by the Lords was of use to Detective Miller, and indeed to the Specialist Dimensional Command, I would have it. Was it this year or last year when I spoke with Detective Holland? I assisted on a case. Or I hope I was of assistance.” Hutchinson was relaxed, jovial, entirely unconcerned by the circumstances of their visit. “Understand, detectives, that I have many contacts across the city, including in the Met. They are all useful people, but I don’t like to play favourites. As a member of the House of Lords I take my duties seriously, especially with regards to domestic affairs. I was Home Secretary for a time in my younger days, you’ll recall.”

There was no way they could march him down to a holding cell based on no more than Miller’s somewhat discredited word. The additional evidence from Clarke would help, but he was being less than forthcoming. Ford hid a grimace; the entire case was far more tenuous that he would like. That’s why they needed access to records. Clarke and the others were already trawling Miller’s files, so it should only be a matter of time.

In the meantime, it would be wise to leave Hutchinson guessing about how much they already knew.

The sputtering police van came to a stop and the rear doors were opened. Hands pushed and pulled Miller out onto the tarmac, where he immediately recognised the gates of Thamesmead prison. Why was he here?

“I’m not supposed to be here,” he said.

A prison guard grinned. “That’s what they all say, mate!”

As he was shuffled towards the entrance, Miller blinked rain from his eyes and tried to reason with his captors. “No, I mean, I’m still in holding. I shouldn’t be at Thamesmead.”

“Lots of prisoners awaiting trial here, fella,” the guard said. “Don’t go thinking yourself something special.”

Miller reached out and pulled at the guard’s shoulder. “I need you to get a message to Detective Inspector Robert Ford—”

The guard spun around and pushed Miller to his knees. “Get cuffs on him,” he ordered, his colleagues immediately obliging. “Listen here, matey, don’t you fucking touch me or any other guard here again, you got me? Don’t go thinking you’re some la-di-da with your fancy names. You’re in the system now. You do what we say.” He nodded to the other guards. “Get him up.”

Stumbling, struggling to find his feet, Miller felt the cold metal of the handcuffs on his wrists, his hands now tied behind his back. Being unable to move his arms properly ratcheted up the intensity of the awful knot in his gut. He took a last look at the grey, wet sky overhead as he was taken inside.

It was odd, Ford thought, being back in the SDC office having just questioned Lord Hutchinson several floors above in the same building. Which was precisely the problem, of course, and something he’d pointed out when they’d first shifted the HQ there: being in the same building as a major governmental institution was inherently compromising. He missed the days of being stationed at the corner of Stamford and Coin, in that old shithole that was nevertheless their shithole.

He passed Morgan her coffee, then sat down at his desk and took a sip from his own. “What do you think?” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, trying to disguise that he’d just burned his tongue.

Morgan whistled. “I think it’s the most interesting thing to happen here since Jones shot dead an innocent civilian.”

Ford laughed bitterly, shaking his head. It wasn’t funny, but he could see her point. “The widening gyre, and all that?”

“Didn’t take you for a poetry reader,” she said, raising her eyebrows.

“I’m not. But I like that one. Read it at school and it always stuck with me. It’s a pretty good description of the world.”

She nodded. “The department has felt destablised for a while. Certainly since we moved here, but possibly going further back. I never knew why, but I had the feeling I was missing something obvious.”

He took another sip, swore under his breath at it still being burning hot. “And It turns out Christopher Bakker, of all people, was looking into it right under our noses. I wish he’d come to us sooner.”

Morgan blew gently across her coffee mug. “Presumably he didn’t know who he could trust.”

“He confided in Clarke, and Kaminski and Chakraborty! But point taken. So, Lord John Hutchinson. A real piece of work.”

“That is one self-assured, very rich, very powerful, very comfortable man.”

She’d noticed it as well, then. “Given the circumstances he should have been far more worried. Which makes me more suspicious, rather than less.”

A telephone rang, somewhere across the office. Robin would get to it.

“What next?” Morgan took a slow, careful sip. She was a hard-arse and took no shit, which was why Ford had always enjoyed working with her. No nonsense, and alarmingly competent for someone relatively young. You didn’t get to DI in your thirties without putting in some serious effort.

“There’s no way we’re getting to Matheson. He conveniently left for Max-Earth earlier in the week. Apparently you can still organise rapid transit if you’re diplomatic staff. And Chancellor Baltine rarely visits.”

“What about Detective Styles? She’s already on Palinor.”

“More than that,” Ford said, grinding his teeth, “she’s working out of an office on Baltine’s estate.”

“What? How did that come about?”

He shrugged. “I wasn’t part of the negotiations. I think Baltine’s daughter had something to do with making the liaison role a possibility.” It was the first time he’d thought about it properly; the SDC had been moved to the basement of the Joint Council tower, where they could be observed, and Lola had been set up to work right under Baltine’s gaze. All of them, observed.

Robin’s voice carried from across the room. “Detective Ford! Telephone for you. I’ll transfer it to your desk.”

“Who is it?”

“An Officer Gately, from Scotland Yard.”

The name sent a shiver of anticipation through him. “That’s someone I knew from the old days,” he said to Morgan. “I asked him to keep an eye on Miller until we could get something more permanent set up for him.”

Morgan raised her eyebrows, but said nothing.

The telephone’s handset felt heavy in his hand. There was a click, then Robin transferred the call.

“Gately, this is Ford.”

“Detective,” came the tinny voice from the other end. “I just got back on shift. They moved Detective Miller a few hours ago.”

Shit. He knew it would be bad news. “Moved him where? Who moved him?”

“Other officers, I’m not sure. It was all approved. Sir, they took him to Thamesmead.”

A cold poison spread from the handset and though Ford’s body. He slammed it back onto the receiver and reached for his coat.

The cell was small. There was a toilet at the back, without a cover. It faced the bars, so that anybody passing in the corridor outside would see you as you went. There were two beds, one on either side. It was cold. Something dripped out of sight; behind the walls there was the occasional scurrying of tiny rodent feet.

Miller recalled reading a case report about a portal tear that had been found in a prison. It might even have been Thamesmead. Who had been on that case? Styles and Clarke, perhaps. No, Clarke and Holland. That fucking traitorous bastard. Miller should never have trusted him.

He tapped at the walls, wondering if a portal tear might be hiding, ready to whisk him away to safety, but there was nothing but old tiles.

There was the bang bang bang bang of a truncheon being run across the bars of cells as someone approached. A prison guard, with another man.

“New cellmate,” the guard said. “Stand at the back, please.”

Miller did as he was told.

The cell door was opened and the new arrival entered, all six and a half feet of him. He could easily have passed as a beserker from Palinor.

There was the clang of the cell door being locked again.

Miller felt a quivering in his bowels. He needed to leave. It must have been a mistake, bringing him here. The whole thing was a mistake. It would be put right, once Ford and Morgan had time to look into it. All a big misunderstanding. Yes, a misunderstanding. He could talk his way out of anything, could Miller. Making a deal was what he was all about.

He could convince anyone of anything, given half a chance.

They’d sequestered a police vehicle from the garage, so as to get across town as quickly as possible. Ford had got Robin to work with Clarke to get the governor at Thamesmead on the line, to pull Miller out or at least put him in solitary until they arrived.

“Oh,” Morgan said, as she turned into the parking lot. A ambulance was parked at an angle by the entrance to the prison.

The next few minutes passed in a blur, Ford unable to recall them properly after the fact. They pulled up and ran inside, cleared their IDs. The prison was on lockdown due to a fatality. They were taken through endless layers of security, taking longer than usual, until finally being allowed onto the cell block. A block used to house prisoners posing a high risk to the public. A guard led them through the corridors and up the stairs to Miller’s cell.

They had him on the floor, on a stretcher, which gave Ford a momentary flicker of hope. Then the paramedic shook his head. The constriction burn mark was still visible on Miller’s neck, and the noose still hung from the ceiling light.

“We were doing the rounds,” the prison guard said. “Can’t have been away from this wing for long. He had the cell to himself, and must have taken the opportunity to do himself in. By the time we got him down it was too late.” The guard shook his head sadly. The performance was a bit much.

Ford realised he was gripping onto one of the bars of the cell. He squeezed the metal with all his strength and was disappointed to find himself unable to crush it like foil. Still he gripped it, wanting to tear the cell door from its hinges, or until his knuckles burst through the skin of his hands.

A gentle hand touched his arm and Morgan was there. She looked at him, her eyes revealing a similar concoction of fury and dismay. Her jaw was set tight.

She took a deep breath. “What now?”

---

Thanks for reading.

I think we probably all saw that one coming, right? Lots of behind-the-scenes stuff below, but first:

This week my conversation with

T K Hall

came out at last:

It was enormous fun to do and I’m intending to do more in-depth chats with other writers, so stay tuned. I’ll take any excuse to talk to people about writing, basically.

The Babylon 5 rewatch continued as well, as we close in on the season 1 finale. Much of my own serial writing is heavily influenced by B5’s story structure:

I enjoyed this piece on how generative AI is encouraging laziness:

'GenAI' is De-Levelling the Market

Talking of generative AI, a reader called me out in a recent discussion for casting judgement over other indie writers who use it. It was a good provocation. So, some clarification is in order.

I decided at the start of 2023 to no longer use generative AI. There were several reasons:

1. After the 2022 novelty wore off I was finding the process and output of generative AI to be increasingly dull.

2. Leaning on AI was resulting in me doing less of my own illustrations.

3. The ongoing copyright and legal issues surrounding the use of large datasets is deeply worrying: it’s not inconceivable that by using generative AI in our work we could be opening ourselves up to future legal peril (or, at the very least, a tedious job of having to manually remove it all at some point down the line).

4. Many artists object to generative AI on principle, or because they’ve seen their work actively repurposed. While that debate is ongoing, until it’s settled one way or another I’d prefer to take the side of the artists than the corporations running the LLMs.¹

More detail on all of my thinking here.

All of that said, though, if another artist chooses to use generative AI, I’m not going to criticise them or call them out. Everyone has to make their own decision about this stuff. If it’s useful in your creative process, that’s fine (but I would be very cautious about point #3, above).

MEANWHILE

Mermay has begun! Admittedly I am already behind, but I was quite pleased with my day 1 entry, on the prompt of ‘lei’:

I’ll aim to catch up over the weekend.

I’m intending to use the chat area more frequently going forward. It’s a fun way for us all to keep in touch, and I run write-ins there which everyone is very welcome to join (usually on Thursdays). Also, if you’re a paid subscriber you can even start your own chats. If you have questions about your writing, or about serial fiction generally, do jump in.

Author notes

There’s a finality to a character death that I always find deeply unnerving. Which is how it should be, of course. Even in the case of a supporting character like Miller, there’s still acute sense of no coming back from this while I’m writing.

I’ve killed off major characters in previous books and it’s always a risk. They could be a reader favourite. Or perhaps there was more story to tell with them. Then again, there’s a greater risk in playing it safe and not making definitive story decisions.

In the case of Miller, it’s not like we’re losing someone we’ve come to care for. In fact, he’s been the most visible antagonist for the last year-or-so, which makes this something of a come-uppance. Then again, the vibe I was going for was not one of dark schadenfreude but of general despair: Miller’s death is in no way a victory for anyone (except, perhaps, those shadowy figures above him) and instead represents the ongoing unravelling of everything. Bakker’s sensed it for a long while and has been desperately trying to fight back, quietly, in the background. His efforts, along with Clarke and Styles and Kaminski and Chakraborty, were to halt the slide into…whatever the conspirators are after.

One bad event after another, Bakker’s been failing. Maxwell becoming PM. The referendum. The suspension of portal travel. Miller’s death. That sense of unravelling is at the heart of Tales from the Triverse, I suspect strongly influenced by my reaction to the last decade of politics and culture in the UK.

As for Ford quoting Yeats: it’s an obvious reference point, and over-used due to its fame, but there’s no getting away from its brilliance. That first section in particular:

Turning and turning in the widening gyre   
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere   
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst   
Are full of passionate intensity.

The Second Coming is one of the few poems I studied at school that took up lodgings in my brain and has refused to leave ever since. Aside from being brilliant writing, it endures because it can so readily be applied to any bad situation; it has a vagueness that makes it endlessly adaptable.

The ‘Loyalties’ storyline represents a descent in the overall Triverse story. We’re being lowered into the pit. The nadir of the story. We’re also going to have another arc-heavy storyline coming up next, bringing yet more changes. One of the fun things about a long running serial is that major changes are really felt, because we’ve been used to a certain way of things for so long. A big twist in a book that you’ve been reading for a few days or weeks is one thing; significant changes in a serial that you’ve been reading for literal years is something else entirely.

Oh, and on the structure of this chapter: I wanted it to feel unnerving and unsettled. Hence the frequent scene changes, hopping between Miller and Ford and Morgan. It dislocates the reader, making it difficult to feel settled. The intention was to create a sense of something is coming, to build tension via the narrative refusing to rest. Layered into all that is a lot of sensory observations: rainfall, dripping water, scratching rodents, truncheons on cell bars and so on. The idea was to have a hyper-sensitive feel to the whole chapter.

Anyway, hope it worked for you. Thanks, as ever, for reading.

1. As somebody pointed out recently: in the early 2000s, teenagers were being taken to court and sued for hundreds of thousands for downloading some MP3s and breaking copyright laws. Yet the AI companies argue that it’s fine for them to do far worse, because “otherwise it wouldn’t work”. Hmm.