The Headquarters
An hour later, Esther Ballard parked her battered car in the car park behind SID HQ. It had started snowing five minutes before and as she got out of the car she was thankful she’d decided to drop into Frodingham Central and get changed. Her old duty boots slid slightly on the newly icy ground. The temperature was dropping quickly and Esther knew that somewhere in the old Capital zone, a storm would be brewing.
She pulled her trench-coat tight around her and locked the door. It was quiet as she crunched down the alley and out onto Doncaster Road. The air dead as she walked down the street towards the door of the HQ, the dead air that happens whenever snow comes and sound seems muffled, as if itself silenced by the cold.
It wouldn’t have mattered if sound had travelled better. There were no sounds to hear. No cars every drove down this road and if they did, they rapidly moved on. It wasn’t a rough area, it was just… tired. A last bulwark of the old town that had sat unchanged on this spot for a century, before the HUD came and life sped up.
The first partner she’d ever had, a old beat policeman called O’Connor, told her that once upon a time this area was the centre of the nightlife of the old town. Packed with people from 1800 hrs to 0300 hrs, Thursday night to Sunday night and that went for every week-end of the year. O’Connor told her, in the way only older men who have spent a lifetime in the same career can, that when the HUD was being built, the people of the town had banded together. They had demanded something be kept the same, protected from the onslaught of modernity and the influx of the migrants from the old capital. And this is what they had chosen to keep. Of all things, a few hundred metres of second rate nightclubs and takeaways.
At first, after the HUD was built, the nightclubs were as busy as ever. The people who had fought to keep them still were in attendance but eventually, they grew older or had children and stopped going out. The next generation were easily distracted and had little time for thoughts of the past when faced with the bright lights of the new multi storey uber-clubs that had grown up in the purpose built commercial district, that now lay just two stops down on the high speed monorail that moved the citizens of the HUD miles in seemingly the blink of an eye. Now the streets lay empty, left behind, a memory of a time when things were simpler, less frantic, more ordinary.
As she turned the corner onto Oswald Road, a light was still on in The Bluebell Inn, the last pub in the area still in operation. Its continued existence was due in no small part to its location right next to the S. I. D.’s HQ and four streets away from Frodingham Central. It had survived by becoming a cop bar. Even now Esther could picture Rick, the old bartender manning the bar into the wee small hours as he had done since he was a teenager. She smiled and opened the big double doors to the HQ.
The Special Investigation Division Headquarters in the Frodingham quarter of the HUD was an imposing building built over a century before. Its first purpose was as a church but it had been a Bangladeshi Community Centre, a nightclub and then had spent several years empty and derelict in its long existence before the Special Investigation Division had acquired it five years before. It was a large red brick building built in the early twentieth century by municipal architects who failed to realise that the Gothic revival had passed fifty years before themselves and they weren't about to revive it a second time.
Esther opened the double doors and stepped into what seemed to be another world. The doors swung shut behind her and two metallic doors moved into place behind them and locked into place. Esther walked down a few steps and into a large hall. Directly in front of her was a raised pulpit where once upon a time, the preacher had delivered his sermon from and where once a church organ had sat. Now it was clear that Callaghan had well and truly conquered.
The polished wood of the pulpit was now lost under snaking lines of cables, piles of electronic components and masses of touch screens and keyboards. In the centre of it, a large ergonomic chair was placed. The chair was obviously designed to swivel and turn to whatever angle was desired to reach a particular console. From above, over 20 massive computer monitors hung from the high roof of the hall. Behind the chair a line of workbenches were full of electronic gear in various stages of repair and dismantlement.
Callaghan sat or rather, lounged, on the chair, wearing a strange harness with a pair of headphones hanging around his neck. His eyes were closed and from the rythmnic movement of his chest, Esther surmised he was asleep.
Between herself and Callaghan’s electronic paradise, the main dance floor of the old nightclub was full of desks which in turn were piled high with high with papers, textbooks, forensics reports, files. A large whiteboard leant against a wall.
To Esther’s right, a set of stairs led up to an upper area with a balcony and peculiarly a couple of coffee tables and chairs at which Hannah now sat, a palmtop communicator to her ear. She smiled at Esther when she saw her and waved.
To Esther’s left at the old bar, Lewis and Gibson sat on barstools. Gibson was reading a book, a pair of old black rimmed glasses perched on his nose. Lewis was talking to Marlowe who stood behind the bar wearing a battered old t-shirt with the logo of the S.I.D on it. He was pouring drinks. Briggs was nowhere to be seen.
Marlowe noticed her.
“Look who’s here. The Madame Nocturne herself, decides to investigate a major criminal case in a very fashionable piece of nightwear. Almost as good as the time that Miles over there managed to steer one of his electrical surveillance wonders into the mayor’s private chambers.” He shouted to her. “Come on in, do you want a drink to dull the crippling feeling of humiliation that now lingers over you.”
“Marlowe, with an attitude like that it’s no wonder that you had problems with Dexter in your unit. You’re just too similar. It must have been like looking into a mirror at work each day.” Esther replied.
A cheer emerged from the various members of the unit with the exception of Gibson who merely looked up from his book and stared at Esther over the tops of his glasses and Callaghan who opened his eyes, smiled briefly and closed them again.
“Wow, Boss, I like this girl, can we keep this one? Huh?” Marlowe’s smile showed his obvious amusement. “She can give as good as she gets.”
“Well, she’s definitely got your number.” Lewis cut in.
“Well, I’d agree there’s a small degree of truth in what she saying, I’m definitely in a different league to the young dauphin in the area of sartorial taste.” Marlowe answered with mock indignation.
“Yes, he doesn’t look like a Frank Sinatra tribute act.” Lewis voice was full of sarcasm.
“I’ll have you know that I take my fashion cues from the late great Tony Bennett.” Marlowe replied.
“Not with that sweater you were wearing at last year’s Christmas party. That was more Shakin’ Stevens than Tony Bennett.”
Shakin Stevens was the only person in the good natured banter that Esther even knew the name of. The 1950s throwback singer from the 1980s was the one of the few artists whose records were still regularly on the approved list. It was becoming clear to her that the detectives were not interested in upholding every single dictate of the law.
“My mother knitted me that sweater.” Marlowe expressed his mock outrage.
“That’s excellent, I’d hate to think that you actually paid money for that thing.”
Marlowe smiled and shrugged, pouring whisky into two glasses. “You’ve got to respect your mother.”
“That you do, that you do, young Marlowe.” Lewis raising his glass to the younger man.
Suddenly, Gibson took off his glasses, put his book down on the top of the bar and turned towards Esther.
“Are you going to come in or just stand on the threshold admiring the view?” He sounded amused.
“Oh, yes, sir.” Esther said, she moved nervously into the hall.
“I’m sorry, this is just very different to Central.” She explained.
“Yeah and that’s nothing but a good thing.” Hannah said as she walked down the stairs from the balcony level. “Everything here’s much less regimented, so don’t look so nervous. They might look scary but at least they don’t bite, except that one time.” She reached the bottom of the stairs and walked with Esther towards the bar.
“Thank you for that lovely description, Detective Constable Sayers. Never has putting someone else at ease sounded so much as just an opportunity to make the rest of us sound like rabid psychopaths.” Gibson deadpanned.
“Just calling it how I see it, chief.” Hannah returned the deadpan tone as she sat down on a stool.
Gibson smiled. “Remind me, why do I still keep you around?”
“Who else would have made the phone call I’ve just made for you.” Hannah replied.
The others nodded. “She’s definitely got a point.” Marlowe pointed out. Gibson pulled a handkerchief out of a pocket and started to clean his glasses.
“So when do I have to go and kowtow to the grand high Alderman and his obnoxious offspring?” he asked, without taking his eyes of the task he was engaged in.
“0900 hours, boss. Bright and early, it doesn’t like they’re going to make this one easy for you.” Hannah smiled sympathetically.
Gibson sighed and stopped cleaning his glasses. He placed them gently on top of his book that lay on top of the bar. He rubbed his eyes. “Why is it the more time I spend with the good Mr Dexter, I find very little difference between the criminals we catch and pillars of the community like his good self.”
“Because he’s narcissistic, is devoid of both empathy and remorse, is manipulative, gets off on control and has an IQ nearly the same size as yours.” Lewis said, finishing Gibson’s thought. “Trouble is, while he may be one step away from leaving bodies all over the HUD and be a fully paid up member of the Charlie Manson Society for charismatic nutcases, he is a pillar of the community. With the contacts and influence that go with such status.”
“Which means I have to go talk to him.” Gibson stated with a tired tone to his voice.
“Which means you have to go talk to them, you want me to go with you?” Lewis asked sympathetically.
Gibson got up and paced back and forth between the paper strewn desktops.
“No, you need to be home with Sofia and the kids, at least for one day. Otherwise she’ll scream at me in Italian threatening to kill me and goodness knows what fate you’ll have. I don’t want to see you at all tomorrow. I’ll take the new girl with me. Maybe it’ll unnerve Dexter Junior to see his replacement there."
Esther was annoyed for a second at being referred to as “the new girl” but that feeling faded as she noticed an odd look that passed between Lewis and Gibson. It was a look that held meaning, as if something was being left unsaid, but Esther couldn’t have guessed what. Still it felt odd, like the two of them were reading each other’s minds within the blink of an eye. After a second, it passed.
“Okay, okay. I’ll give in. Ballard, make sure that our boss doesn’t land us in more trouble.” Lewis picked a set of car keys from the top of the bar and headed for the door.
Before he got to the door, it slammed open from the outside bringing with it a blisteringly cold wind, flurries of snowflakes and the massive form of Briggs. Briggs was encased in a huge overcoat with a fur hat perched on top of his lean head. In front of him he carried a large stack of pizza boxes.
“Briggs, where the heck have you been? You were supposed to come back straight back here after securing the crime scene.” Gibson shouted towards the impassive face of Briggs.
“Pizza! Finally!” Callaghan shouted from the pulpit. Unstrapping himself from his harness and jumping out of his chair in one fluid movement, he vaulted the wooden rail around the pulpit and ran towards Briggs.
“You owe me, Callaghan. I had to go all the way into Scotter to get these. The monorail’s coverage is patchy and the traffic’s bad and not to mention, the fact that all the takeaways moved out of this area long ago.” Briggs said, dropping the boxes into Callaghan’s arms, nearly knocking the younger man over.
“You had him get you pizza on the busiest night of the year, in the middle of our biggest case in years?” Gibson asked with an incredulous tone.
Callaghan lugged the pizza boxes towards the pulpit. “The team’s got to eat. I bought enough for everyone, boss.”
“I’m not sure that’s exactly the Inspectors point, Miles.” Lewis pointed out.
“Enough with the first name. I just figured I couldn’t find any information on the unknown victim. I couldn’t hack the accounts, not that it would have been legal if I could. Its Winterval. I thought we could, you know “kick back” and all that. Just for a couple of hours. Welcome our new recruit.” Callaghan replied from the pulpit.
“He’s thinking, boss, you’ve got to stop him.” Marlowe dead-panned from the bar. “It’s not good for him.”
“Very funny, John, very funny.” Callaghan replied sarcastically.
“Correct me if I’m wrong but isn’t it a bad idea to put greasy food products near complex electronics.”
“Whatever, Marlowe, You think bits and bytes are portions at a burger joint. Was the internet always just something that passed you by?” Callaghan answered leaving a box of pizza next to an impossibly complex piece of equipment and carrying the others over to the bar where Marlowe now leaned.
As this was going on Briggs walked towards a door on the other side of the room marked “Lockers” and disappeared inside. Lewis stood at the open doorway still. Behind him, snow was already started to build up on the hall’s floor.
“Are you sure you want me to go.” Lewis asked Gibson. “Because you know what these guys are going to be like tonight.”
“Them, I’m used to dealing with, Sofia, less so. I’m not adding her being mad at me about you being out all night to everything else I need to sort out, now go.”
Lewis shrugged and made his way out of the door. As he reached it, Gibson shouted after him. “And close that door after you.”
Lewis smiled slightly and then closed the door and disappeared into the snow shrouded night streets.
Esther watched the whole pantomime with a feeling of growing bemusement. As hard as it was for her to admit that she felt any sympathy with Dexter, she was beginning to see how the strange behaviour of Gibson and his team could rapidly become an irritation for somebody as self-centred and entitled as the irascible, privileged, young, Detective Sergeant.
“Alright, as young Mr Callaghan has pointed out we’re not exactly going to be seeing anything remotely resembling movement on this case during the midnight hours. There's a post mortem to be completed and Dexter Senior is going to be seeing me and DS Ballard in the morning. So, in view of this and the fact that we're all going to be pulling double shifts in the next few days, you're dismissed for the evening.” Gibson said standing up from the bar and stretching his tall body to its full height. He smiled at Esther.
“Apart from you, Esther, is it?”
She nodded.
“Well, Esther, if you’re not too tired there are some things I would like to run by you before you start working with us.”
Gibson’s tone was apologetic but quietly businesslike.
As he was speaking Marlowe was heading towards a door marked “Men’s Bunks”, Callaghan had retreated towards his pulpit each carrying a box of pizza with them. Hannah picked a box up herself and shouted after them.
“Don’t you dare make a mess! You know the department’s cleaners refused to touch this place last month. Seriously, guys, none of us is cleaning up after you!”
A couple of grunts came from the retreating forms of Marlowe and Briggs. Hannah sighed and then smiled at Esther.
“Here let me take your bag. This is all your things from your locker at Central?” Hannah asked Esther.
Esther nodded.
“Well, I’ll take it and put it next to your bunk. Working in this department is not always routine. They'll be days where you won't be able to go home even for a shower. So we have it all on hand. So bring whatever clothes are comfortable for any downtime and you can unpack your bag after your grilling from the boss.”
“That’s a really helpful statement, Hannah. This isn't a grilling. I’m just trying to prevent a repeat of the Dexter situation.” Gibson said testily.
Hannah grinned and picked up Esther’s bag.
“There’s not going to be a repeat of the Dexter situation.” She said.
“And how do you know that? I’m sure DS Ballard is a great officer but we’re not exactly an orthodox unit. How are we to know that she won’t take exception to our rather unique status?” Gibson asked.
“I’m sorry to interrupt but I’m not accustomed to people talking about me without speaking to my face.” Esther said in a deliberately measured tone. Gibson turned to her, a stunned look on his thin face. Hannah started to walk off with Esther’s bag.
“Boss, the only thing likely to cause a repeat of the Dexter situation is you being rude to DS Ballard while trying to prevent a repeat of the Dexter situation.” She shouted over her shoulder.
“I should never have told her how much I love paradoxes!” Gibson muttered to Esther. “Shall we?” He asked her, gesturing towards the stairs that led up to the balcony level.
Esther nodded and followed the Inspector up onto the balcony.
Under the light of a single lamp in a dark room in some other part of the darkening, snow covered expanse of the HUD, a man worked diligently at the job before him. His calloused hands moved with rapid but measured speed across the metallic face of the electronic motherboard before him.
He took pride in his work. Soldering and wiring, making connections, fitting old fashioned transistors and marrying them to up to the minute power sources or information storage devices.
He took pride in his work. Not many people did nowadays, he thought ruefully to himself, but he always would. Preferring the work of a craftsman to the mass produced garbage that flooded the electronics market these days, and there were people who agreed with him. It seemed the rich and paranoid were partial to handmade electronic gizmos, one of a kind, to show off to their equally rich and paranoid rivals. In a world of ever advancing technological progress there was something attractive about the personal touch, the hand of the artist. In medieval times, rich men and patronised the works of Michaelangelo and Da Vinci and now they chose to extend their patronage to him. And they always paid well, very well. Enough to allow him to do some jobs just for himself, and his own satisfaction, to give something back to the community.
He took pride in his work and as he laboured, he looked at up the device in front of him. The curved form reflecting Art Deco geometrics foisted on the masses, the simple shapes imposed onto the speakerbox, the rudimentary dials. Pure art, Pure design. Created for the simple and mundane task of keeping the masses entertained.
The Craftsman looked at the wireless set in front of him as he finally placed the power source into its place and smiled to himself. Yes, there were definitely some jobs he did for free and yes, he did give back to the community. The world needed him to. Yes he did take pride in his work. In his place, who wouldn't? He leaned back and closed his eyes as the song started to play.
“Did you want some pizza?”
“What?” The question took Esther by surprise.
“Did you want some pizza?” Gibson asked her as they sat down.
“Oh, no, that’s okay.” She answered.
“Okay, then. As I said before, this isn't the general procedure of interdepartmental transfers but there are some things I want to make you aware of before you start working here. I didn’t give DS Dexter the same courtesy when he came on board and it ended up being a bit of a rough ride to say the least.”
Gibson spoke slowly, his voice measured and thoughtful, as if every word was considered for as long as possible before it left his lips. It seemed at odds with the argumentative and irritably jocular tone he’d taken with the other members of the team not five minutes earlier. He was difficult to read. A complex man, she could tell already. As his eye met hers she felt suddenly nervous.
“Sir, I just wanted to apologise for the comment about talking to my face when talking about me.” She blurted out, her face reddening.
Gibson smiled slightly.
“There’s no need. The fault was mine and you were right to say something. So don’t apologise. I don’t want yes men or in your case yes women, in this division. You must be able to speak your mind, only that way does anyone know that you have something in your mind to speak out in the first place.” He explained.
“I’m sorry sir, I’m finding this all a little sudden. Yesterday morning, I was still working robbery at Frodingham Central and then suddenly I was summoned off the Cortex to a potential serial killing in the middle of a memorial sphere and then I walk into what appears to be the most argumentative and dysfunctional investigative unit I’ve ever seen. So I’m not sure you want me to speak out what’s on my mind.” Esther said passionately.
“Yes I do. I need to know what’s on your mind. Our work is not always exactly normal or by the book. It’s also not just about where the evidence takes us or where the prejudices of society would have us look. Intuition is very important.”
Gibson leaned back in his chair and looked pensively at her. Esther returned it with equal thoughtfulness. They sat like that what seemed a very long time, although it was probably only a couple of minutes. An eternity of silent appraisal, one of the other, back and forth, across the table that lay between them. Esther broke the silence.
“So, why were things with Dexter such a disaster?” She asked.
“I don’t remember categorising his time with us as a disaster.” Gibson deflected the comment, his thoughtful gaze showed no emotion.
“I happened to run into Dexter earlier. I’ve worked with him for years and I’ve never seen His Lordship as furious as he was tonight. It must have been a disaster, he was more hopped up than a Kirmington Whore, high on Euphie. So what got him that way? Because as odd as your team’s behaviour is. And it is odd by the way, compared to every other copper I’ve ever worked with. As odd as it is, it still doesn’t explain Dexter's attitude, the guy is the dictionary definition of thick skinned but I wouldn’t be surprised if he wasn’t begging Daddy to put a contract out on you, right now. So why were things with the young prince such a disaster?” Esther probed, her desire to know why Dexter had washed out in such a dramatic fashion not thwarted by Gibson’s cursory deflection.
Gibson leaned forward in his chair and then stood up. He walked towards the corner of the balcony where an old fashioned coffee machine sat happily humming to itself as it percolated.
“Coffee?” he asked Esther, changing the subject swiftly as he had with the pizza question earlier.
“What? Sure, whatever.” She answered, her voice irritable.
“Milk, sugar?” Gibson’s voice was as calm as Esther’s was irritable, radiating a level of what Esther would have called serenity if it hadn’t come from the world worn police detective who stood before her.
“Black’s fine.” She replied trying to control the timbre of her voice.
Gibson poured the coffee into a pair of chipped mugs with the division’s logo on them. He placed them on the table, he then returned to his previous position, leant back in his chair, his long legs bracing himself against the table, his eyes staring into space.
“You follow politics?” Gibson spoke again, changing the subject once more, Esther was certain he was trying to rattle her, keep her off her game but she didn’t understand why.
“Does anyone?” she returned his question with one of her own.
“That’s a fair point.” Gibson conceded. “Time was they did, back before the HUD was built, back nearly a century, everyone thought the world could be made new. That ideologies or beliefs could change everything and anything for the better. That politics was for the benefit of mankind and that politicians just possibly, might be living for something other than themselves. A time of manifestos and grand visions, when voting for someone often meant voting for a dream of what the world could be, not what it is. That the extremes of human thought, could have the potential to help people rather than hurt them.”
It didn’t sound like any politician Esther had ever seen or heard from. The only thing politicians seemed to care about now was feathering their own nest or becoming famous on the Cortex.
“Not that that isn’t extremely interesting and enlightening, but I asked about what happened with Dexter, not for a history lesson.” Esther pointed out, her voice conveying, she hoped, that she was tired with the verbal games Gibson seemed to be playing with her.
Gibson took a sip of his coffee and replied swiftly.
“That was the problem with Dexter.”
“What was? Politics? Is the little weasel thinking of running for office now?”
“Thankfully, I think not. His father doesn't appear as one who shares power well and he's the politician in the Dexter family after all. But politics, power, influence, control, all of the above. Our differing opinions on those subjects led to an irrevocable divorce. The peculiar political and legal position of this division appeared to offend his delicate sensibilities. We had disagreements, I don’t think he’s used to people telling him that’s he’s wrong.”
“I would say that’s a fair interpretation of his attitude to the rest of the human race.” Esther deadpanned.
Gibson’s slight grin returned. He reached for a file which lay with others on the table to his left. It was an old fashioned file, Esther was surprised to see, papers stapled together in a folder. All stiff cream card and white paper, yellowing at the edges from being kept too long in a forgotten filing cabinet somewhere in a forgotten part of the HUDs labyrinthine public building system. It seemed anachronistic compared to Callahan’s sanctuary of electronic existence that she could still see from the balcony. Callahan himself was still there, on the other side of the room, a soldering iron in one hand, a motherboard in the other, muttering to himself as he worked. Next to that, the file did seem somewhat out of place.
Everyone had a paperless existence now. All business was conducted “on the load”. The Neurocortex had seen to that. Identity was confirmed through the Coding Implants, goods were purchased, savings kept in the strange blue half-light of the Cortex’s banking sector. Police and court records were kept in hyper fire-walled virtual fortresses, islands in a stormy digital sea.
In hospitals, doctors needed only to access their head-ports to see their patient’s medical history, along with their scans and blood work. Diagnoses were made in seconds. Some people still read paper books but they were considered unusual, people unwilling or unable to embrace the future. Relics of a past age, no longer useful in this brave new world. Gibson didn’t strike her as a technophobe, although he had been reading a small paperback when she first came in, she remembered.
“Despite the fact that he’s a spoilt man child with a massive belief in his own entitlement to pretty much everything, Dexter’s issues with this unit are to be expected. They are a result of the time and place he was born, the social order he was born into and everything he’s been taught since the moment his brain was mature enough to ride the cortex.” Gibson’s statement broke into Esther’s thoughts. He looked at the file and then up at Esther. He frowned and stared at her for a few seconds, as if appraising whether he should continue with what he was saying.
“I only hope that you are better equipped to handle this team’s unique nature.” He said, contemplatively, as if talking to himself as much as Esther.
“I couldn’t say what my response will be without more information on what that nature happens to be.” Esther responded to Gibson’s statement.
Gibson nodded and passed her the file. Esther took it.
“A paper file, how quaint.” Esther said as she opened the file.
“You won’t find that information recorded anywhere electronically. Not on the Cortex or on a Tab-Dev, that’s the only copy I know of it.” Gibson gestured towards the file.
“And this is the reason Dexter had problems here?”
“Indirectly,” Dexter sighed. “It’s the original wording of a government bill. THE government bill, The bill that changed everything and by consequence created the need for the SID. That document is the basis of all life in the HUD and in the United Kingdom.”
“The Protection of the Realm Act 2019?” Esther asked looking down at the document in front of her. She’d heard of it, vaguely, at school.
“Almost. All acts are bills when sent to the floor of the Commons. That’s the text of the document that MPs voted on.” Gibson explained.
“So this…”
“Is the basis of the HUD’s existence, the approved list, political structure, in fact all social order as we know it today.”
“So what does Dexter care about a 26 year old Act?” Esther asked, running her fingers through her jet black shoulder length hair.
“Consciously, nothing. I doubt he’s even aware of the Act’s existence. But he has been brought up and educated, however, in a world effectively functioning on the central conclusions and precepts of the Act.” Gibson took another sip of his coffee.
“Which are?” Esther asked. “This is a long document, you’re not expecting me to read it to get the answer are you?”
Gibson smiled.
“No, I’m not. I just wanted you to see it. To know of its existence. As for what it says. The Act was pushed through Parliament in 2019 in the immediate aftermath of the eco terror attack on London. You have to understand that people were shocked by the attack. Half of northern Europe was devastated. Most of it is still not liveable. Something that everyone here is aware of.
In the wake of this, an influential group of MPs were able to persuade Parliament that the attack was the natural end result of deeply held ideological or spiritual convictions. That a person or a group of people holding such beliefs with any level of conviction would always pursue a lifestyle that would result in actions and activities detrimental to the benevolent existence of human civil society. As a result of that theory, they authored a bill that they claimed would protect the British people from disaster by “limiting” the influence of “ detrimental subversive extremist” elements of the population.”
Esther slowly sipped her coffee as Gibson told her of the details of the Act.
“Firstly, all people who were considered to be more than nominal Christians, Muslims, Hindus, Sikhs, etc.; were banned from applying for all public sector jobs along with all people of a so-called “radical” political persuasion.”
“Did they actually remove people from their jobs?” Esther asked.
“Negative, The Act was not retro-active, if you were already in your job at the time of the Act you could keep it. The idea was to create a public sector that eventually would be staffed entirely by people, who, the authors of the bill considered would not be tied to any “detrimental subversive extremist” organisations or ideas. Thus children would be taught by teachers believing in a “beneficial” atheist secular world view. Patients in hospital would not be burdened by the false religious hope of nurses as they lay dying. They created the “Approved List”, a list of books, music, art that the population were allowed to read. Things that wouldn’t harm them by putting into their heads dangerous concepts like faith or political fervour.” Gibson paused.
“Everything was in so much turmoil nobody noticed the Act being pushed through. And by the time anyone did, it was too late.”
“So what has this got to do with Dexter.”
Gibson grimaced, as if what he was about to say offended him, badly.
“Knowing that not everybody would listen to the new rules and that true radicals who espouse violence are always going to espouse violence whether frowned upon or not. Understanding that, they “permitted” the creation of certain units within the police force known as “Special Investigation Divisions”, these units would be able to investigate crimes involving extremists, serial killers, cult leaders and the like.”
“That much I know.” Esther pointed out. “Everyone in the Police knows what the purpose of the S.I.D is.”
“No, you don’t. The reason it was created was because the MPs who authored this bill and all the things that came with it, understood that a society brought up without exposure to religion or radical politics or the works of William Blake or W.B. Yeats or even Aldous Huxley, would have difficulty understanding radically disturbed individuals. The S.I.D, therefore is the only department in the police force where people are allowed to hold the views that normally would prevent them being in the police at all.”
“You’re all “dissenters?” Esther asked.
“Dissenter is such an ugly word. Let’s just say that ourselves and the governing forces of our society have a difference of opinion about how best to live our lives.”
“And Dexter had a problem with that?” Esther asked.
“Of course he did. His father had him attend the Dawkins Academy from the age of 4. The top school for this new order of British society. Children bred without the need to rely on spiritual or political “crutches”. He has known nothing else but secularist philosophy and prejudice all his life. When he found out, he tried to have us arrested for violating the approved list. ” Gibson replied. He was silent again watching her reaction.
“What happened?” Esther asked.
“Absolutely nothing. The Act allows for units like ours. And for all I might not agree with the conclusions of the Act, I don’t think it was created with maliciousness as its primary intent. So the force told him to forget it and transferred him.”
“So what are you?” Esther asked.
“What am I?” Gibson responded, a quizzical look on his slim face.
“How do you fall foul of the approved list?”
“Oh. I see. I’m a Christian. So are Lewis and Hannah. Briggs is a Communist, although I still have no idea why. Marlowe’s father was a human rights lawyer and brought his son up to hate most forms of government control. And Callahan is an anarchist computer hacker.” Gibson ran through the team’s status and then looked at her quietly as if analysing her.
“So is this going to be a problem for you?” Gibson asked finally breaking the silence.
“I’m not Dexter,” Esther answered with a grin. “And I was always one at school for hanging out with the different kids even if I may have been such a social butterfly myself.”
“Oh, so this will like a cheerleader befriending the nerd squad?” Gibson laughed.
“I’m sorry? I don’t know what you mean. We didn’t have cheerleaders at school.”
Gibson had half stood up as he laughed. He stopped and sighed.
“Seriously, you need to watch some non-approved films. It’s an American teen flick cliché. The cheerleader who’s popular befriending the hopelessly unpopular science geeks.” He carried on walking away from the table shaking his head.
“Is that it then?” Esther shouted as Gibson reached the stairs down to the first floor. He stopped, turned and looked at her.
“If you say it’s not going to be a problem and you’re sure that that’s the case, then we both need to get some sleep. We’re talking to the Dexters tomorrow. You’ll find a bunk made up for you in the room conveniently marked “Women’s bunks”. Sleep well. See you at 0800.”
With that he headed down the stairs leaving Esther with the file still in her hands. As she sat staring at the black letters on the pure white page she could hear Gibson still talking to himself as he walked across the hall’s first floor.
“Doesn’t understand a cheerleader/geek reference, what’s the world coming to? Should I realised that something was wrong with the approved list when they classified Ferris Bueller’s Day Off as subversive film. What’s subversive about bunking off school, okay bad example. Gosh, the 1980s were a long time ago. I'm getting old. Go to bed Callahan!” This last phrase was shouted at the computer expert as he worked.
“What! Oh yeah boss, will do.” Callahan replied sounding flustered.
Esther leaned back in her chair and sighed. She might not have had the same problem as Dexter had found with the unit, couldn’t really see why the Act was such a big deal really, but one thing she could tell, working for the SID was definitely going to take some getting used to.
