On viewing a morning edition of the Daily News, Assistant Director was grateful that Nic had taken the trouble to forewarn him. Already the anti-Commission pressure groups were screaming ‘foul’ and critics of unsafe practices at the Commission were having a field trip. This had potential to rock a boat which rarely sailed into public view. He was, however, fully prepared to demonstrate his qualities of leadership and navigate a return to the quiet anchorage that a Ministerial hammock was slung in.
An exemplar of resolve, he rode the elevator with chin upraised, exiting to stride purposefully towards his office, newspaper neatly tucked under one arm.
“Sir,” Alison said, looking up from her desk, “have you read…?”
“Yes,” he spoke easily as he braked in order to issue commands. “First get me Director in Jacksonville, on whatever golf course he is playing, then the Minister. Oh, and Alison, find out what you can, not already in the Daily News. Raise Legal Blair. Chop chop. All due despatch.”
Assistant Director smiled distantly at his secretary, to whom he appeared quite unperturbed. He walked into his office and closed the door. Inside, he decided against removing his jacket and stood stiffly behind his desk. A few minutes passed in this way before he resumed his ‘imperturbable’ persona. Perhaps this crisis was, after all, just what his career needed. A short period in the public gaze would do him no harm.
He felt his yellow tie with long fingers, ensuring the knot centred in the v-shaped opening at his collar, then smoothed at conventionally cut hair. Taking a comfortable glance out of an office window, he stepped around his desk.
Legal Blair found his impeccable chief seated, fountain pen poised over an elegant encrier.
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Control awoke in a hushed apartment, enjoying independent status. His routines were no longer constrained by female activities and he left the toilet seat in vertical jubilation.
He missed the beginning of the television news bulletin and so was at his desk before he learned of the incineration of a dozen men near Strontian. Everyone in the office was talking about it. The news shocked him to his core. The destruction of a hundred thousand, a million trees, destined for paper pulp had been his only goal; that goal had been an impersonal one. The fire was intended to make a statement only. Human suffering had no place in the rationale. An inevitable witch hunt would reveal his role. He sat white faced for a long period staring at his laptop, unable to work.
All around him, the modestly salaried in cataleptic office jobs gave vent to bloodthirsty opinions. We are dormant volcanos of emotion, they were really saying; we are outraged normality. We would need to be physically restrained to prevent us from tearing into little pieces those incompetents who send men to die in forest fires. To show their individuality, faceless ones ranted for the duration of the morning tea-break. They had taken the line of their tabloid, as always, and believed ‘green’ management was to blame. The report of suspected arson would not reach them until later. A cunning Daily News had withheld from its rivals all suspicions of arson and so raced clear of the field with triumphant headlines.
The office day dragged itself towards lunch. Routine cemented a silence. Control became unrepentant, guilty of nothing but his desire to promote good husbandry of uninhabited areas instead of having the wild covered by what was, in effect, waste paper. He was guilty of a gesture, only that. Anyone with half an eye could see it. Of course they could.
Later still, he reminded himself that men of destiny, a category in which he included himself, were much misunderstood. Few great prophets were hailed in their lifetime and every great truth had begun as blasphemy. A time would come when his role in promoting a bio-diverse environment might be recognised…but not yet, please God, not just yet.
His line manager walked past, absorbed in a bout of texting, and sparked a train of thought. Leaders required to build an entourage of followers, if not outright disciples. To become a shepherd one must first gather a flock of sheep. He had found the creation of his cell to be remarkably easy. It reinforced a belief that a majority were born to be led, craved leadership. A few like himself were born to satisfy this craving.
The building mysteriously emptied each lunchtime and he pushed away from his desk to stroll along aisles, cleverly planned to discourage both claustrophobia and communication An abandoned Daily News on a desk caught his attention. Headlined, the fire deaths at Strontian leapt towards him in heavy type. ‘ARSON – 12 VICTIMS’ was trumpeted with clichés about justice for those killed and sympathy from all who had been asked for a response.
He read with fascinated horror. Each line of print gripped him further, forced him deeper into the Baby-face piece. His eyes could not escape the page. It appeared that at least one Daily News reporter would never sleep sound until the arsonist was brought to justice.
There would be a ferocious investigation. It was inevitable. His little cell would soon be discovered. And there was John, who had been so willing to pass the last message…but why so willing? He began to research John in his mind. Had he not been altogether too keen in a curiously insistent way? He had come out of nowhere. What was his pedigree? He appeared to know more than one should about the right of protest. He had actually volunteered. Help to do the job properly when the time came, wasn’t that what John had said? God, had it not been John’s idea from the start? ‘We need to scare these people out of complacency. A forest fire would do the trick. And you would have your sleeper’s data for any follow up,’ he had pressed, for Silas’ original role was to gather data and expose the ruthless commercialism of the Commission. Silas, the quiet dedicated Silas, could be used. What was John’s agenda? Anarchy? Oh, God, they had arranged to meet! Easy now, that was a week away. Think of what to do.
The others of his cell then incautiously phoned him during the afternoon in breach of ‘deep cover’, their voices showing a predisposition to panic. His whispered replies attracted amused ‘he’s got girl trouble’ comments.
Finally, Control’s line manager on an overseer’s amble noticed the pale and sweaty appearance of his minion. He was in puckish mood and well aware that the Production Controller’s input was inconsequential. It was sensible to send the clerk home before he spread his ailment through the building. He paused at the sick desk and a grey face stared up at him.
“Better get home,” the manager counselled, “you look terrible. Are you coming down with something? Never mind, just take yourself off,” and he made a shooing gesture.
“He’s been getting worse all day,” a colleague’s head appeared over a nearby partition, loyally forbearing to mention the earlier phone calls.
“Well, off you go, then. Maybe you’ll be better tomorrow,” the manager sounded doubtful.
Control mumbled a thanks. He ran fingertips across his forehead and saw wetness glisten on their ridges of skin. His briefcase sat next his desk and he bent to pick it up. With his line manager hovering, he straightened and walked slowly between chest-high partitions. Sweat trickled coldly in his armpits and ran down his ribs.
“He was in a bit of a state,” the tea-lady told anyone who would listen, “hope it’s not catching,” and caused a number of her corridor customers to hastily recall whether or not they had contact with the stricken one at any point during the day.
In the car park, a further call on his mobile requested his presence at an emergency meeting of the environmental organisation of which he was a voluntary member. Something urgent to do with a dreadful fire in remote parts. Protect the Raptors himself was in crisis, an asthma attack having been continuous since he read that the Ardnamurchan region was ‘full of smoke’ (description by a tabloid journalist who had never been near the place). Ardnamurchan was populated by eagles, harriers, hawks, merlins and buzzards.
Not wishing to claim physical weakness, Control regretted an inability to attend due to work making an inescapable demand on his time and skills. Shortly afterwards, he was back in the apartment where he lingered for a long time on his sofa facing a black rectangle of television screen. Beside him, on a coffee table, lay a remote control. He made no attempt to pick it up.