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About the Author
Iain M. Rodgers was born in Glasgow. He sometimes has difficulty describing himself as a Glaswegian because for most of his life he has been pinged around like a pinball. The list of places he is associated with includes Glasgow, Manchester, Lagos, London, Sheffield, Dublin, Helsinki, Stockholm, Rotterdam, Amsterdam and Moscow.
His cover story is that he was a Civil Servant for a while, which got him into I.T. One day he decided to give that up, teach English in Moscow and try to write books. His cover story is a fabrication.
1. God Save The Queen
(Glasgow – 1977)
Every great dream begins with a dreamer. Always remember, you have within you the strength, the patience, and the passion to reach for the stars to change the world.
Harriet Tubman
A dark orange paper lantern, hanging from an elaborately decorative centre rose of the high Victorian ceiling, provided barely enough light to illuminate the languidly twisting coils of silver smoke that filled the room. The air was thick with the smell of cannabis.
Young men and women, a mixture of long-haired hippies and short-haired punks, were sprawled over the floor smoking joints and drinking from cans. In one corner of the large room, looking either like a witch or a puritan, an earnest young woman in a high-necked maxi-dress was kneeling to roll a joint on a low, half-broken side table. She did it carefully and ritualistically. Several people nearby watched with interest, as though her performance formed part of an important ceremony.
A guy with a guitar was slumped in a beanbag trying to play Leonard Cohen’s famous blue dirge Famous Blue Raincoat, though no one was interested in his depressive mumbling. Eventually, someone decided he’d heard enough. A kid with spiky hair and an imitation leather jacket pierced with hundreds of safety pins and button badges skipped through the bodies strewn on the floor and pushed poor ‘Leonard’ off the beanbag.
“That’s shite by raway pal.” The punk sneered in a rough Glasgow voice. Then he shouted back over his shoulder: “Moira, put ra Pistols oan. Let’s get some life intae ris party.”
◆◆◆
Meanwhile, Stuart and Richard were quietly discussing something in the corner opposite the young woman rolling the joint.
“You’re all just wasting your time you know. All this marching and selling newspapers will never get you anywhere,” Richard stated.
“History, man. History’s on our side.”
“History bollocks. You guys are just kids. You’re just playing at this.”
“Eddie’s totally serious. Mibby worryingly serious.”Stuart spoke with a slight Glasgow accent which, though mild, sometimes influenced Richard to imitate it to some extent. After pausing to think for a moment he added, “I guess ye could say I’m more interested in an academic way myself.”
“I know that, man. See that PhD you’re doing, all that theory shit, ‘German philosophy from Hegel to Marx’, I don’t really get it. I wish I’d done some proper subjects myself; engineering say, instead of this politics and sociology crap.” Richard thought morosely for a few moments before perking up a bit. “Imagine if, years from now, your education finally pays off and you find yourself in a half-decent job. Let’s say no one even knows you’re a commie. What would happen if you could reconnect with all your comrades from the Party and put yourself at their disposal?”
“What could you do then that you can’t do now?”
“Who knows, man? But I bet you could do a damned sight more damage, or good I mean, than a hundred of these silly pot-smoking kids that think they’re being so cool and radical.”
“Mibby you’re right, but you’re not even a Party member. You’re just a guy who tags along; a fellow traveller. You’re not even interested in what the Party wants.”
“You’re right Stuart, I’m not. I’m not interested in all this posturing and posing, but, see if I thought I could do any good I would definitely do whatever it takes.”
“Like fuck ye would.”
“Course I would! And me not being a Party member would help anyway. I’m not on anyone’s radar. I’ve never even had my picture taken on any of your half-assed marches or demos.”
“‘Half-assed marches’? Yeah, right-e-o! How come you’ve never even come on a march or demo, ya bastard?”
“Waste of time man. Take all those stupid asses that demonstrated to save every last job in the shipyards. All it did was make sure that the yards couldn’t compete. Instead of saving jobs they made sure they all went.”
Stuart was eyeing him with suspicion. They had argued on this subject a number of times already and agreed to differ. Richard didn’t bother to bring the same old arguments up yet again but was dismayed that even Stuart didn’t seem to understand him. He was well aware that nobody in the Party took him seriously. For one thing his background was against him. But, more importantly, there was an ideological divide between him and the others. If he had to explain to these Marxists in terms that would be acceptable, it was the difference between Das Kapital and Der Grundrisse. Properly reading either Das Kapital or Der Grundrisse was not something he had bothered to do, but he believed the difference between them explained the difference between himself and the others. Ultimately, he was reluctant to describe himself as a Marxist of any kind. An anarchist called Kropotkin had more attractive ideas. But that was something best not mentioned at all.
“Oh jeezus!” Stuart blurted out.
“What?” Stuart jerked his head to the side in the direction of the door, which was being closed again after opening briefly.
“Line-up-Linda’s just arrived. She’s probably heading straight upstairs to get her legs in the air.”
Richard knew Stuart didn’t like Linda MacKerricher. He thought she was a slut. So she was; but Richard didn’t see anything wrong with that. She was a liberated and independent young woman. In fact Richard found her crazily sexy. He cursed his luck in not catching sight of her – probably wearing those kinky wet-look boots and that purple mini-skirt. Liberated and “easy” though she was, Richard could never pluck up the courage to even talk to her, let alone join in one of the orgies she was reputed to take part in.
“So why would a posh cunt like you even want to help?” Stuart continued, snapping Richard out of the reverie that Linda MacKerricher had unknowingly evoked.
“Lots of ‘posh cunts’ are revolutionaries. Most revolutionaries are posh cunts in fact – Marx himself, Lenin, Guevara… you name it.”
“Yeah, sure thing, Guildford boy.”
“Fuck you Mr Kelvinside Academy.” Richard knew that Stuart was as middle class as it was possible to be for a Glaswegian, but still had one over on him when it came to class-related, inverted snobbery. Richard’s parents now lived in Milngavie, having moved up to Scotland from Guildford when he was about three. In the mindset of most Glaswegians, Richard was a toff – almost aristocracy.
“OK Guildford boy. So you like to tag along to the odd meeting. You like to slag off the hardcore members but will we ever see you put your money where your mouth is?”
“If I thought it could do some actual good I would. I mean the way society is just now… there’s lots of things wrong. Systemic things. You know yourself how we’ve discussed it all; over and over again. Things that are wrong. Things that are wrong with the system itself and so can’t be fixed by the system.” He wondered if he was getting a bit drunk. He didn’t usually use Glaswegian expressions like “You know yourself”. He would normally say “As you know” or whatever the correct expression was.
“OK, agreed. So what do ye propose then?”
“Nationalise the banks without compensation. Step one.”
“You can’t just do that though.” Stuart said with the sort of patience usually reserved for small children, “You can only do that after a revolution. Industries can only be nationalised after they’ve failed. Or by force, after revolution.”
“Not true. Labour’s in power now and there are already mutuals, co-operative banks, the National Savings Bank. Why don’t they just expand that sector and take over the banking system step by step?”
Stuart shrugged. “Step by step hasn’t worked. The Left has already tried Parliament. Every time they do something the Tories just reverse it next time they’re in. Plus the Left never stick to their guns when they get into power; they always change. We’ve had Keir Hardie, Aneurin Bevan, Benn. Even Harold-bloody-Wilson was supposedly ‘hard Left’ and look what happened.”
Stuart’s attention was drawn to the door again. Richard looked too, hoping that Linda had come back. He was immediately disappointed. Instead of Linda MacKerricher wearing a mini-skirt and boots, someone wearing a duffle coat and a Partick Thistle hat and scarf was trying to push a bicycle into the room. It seemed that the Thistle fan was intending to ride the bike around the room as an amusing stunt. This was giving rise to a bit of an altercation because several of the punks were trying to prevent him. Their idea of anarchy in the UK did not extend to permitting people to ride bicycles in rooms.
“OK, let’s agree, as usual, that only revolution will really change things. So how do you do it?” said Richard.
“How would you do it?”
“Just what I was trying to say a moment ago. You need something to trigger it, an act that causes significant damage to the existing system so that it’s unable to function properly. Once that happens the socialists will rise up and the system will be unable to defend itself.”
Stuart didn’t say anything but nodded briefly in agreement. Then, remembering there were more important matters to attend to, he stretched his head back and began tipping half a tin of Tennent’s Super Lager down his throat, seemingly oblivious as Richard continued his monologue:
“We’re just kids right now, students. We know nothing. We don’t know anybody who knows anything or has any influence. Even guys like Eddie are half-way to Walter Mitty; they’re kidding themselves. But all this education we’re getting might eventually be good for something. If we could keep in touch with the people we know who really want to change things and make a difference then one day we might be useful.”
Stuart had stopped gulping the lager. His head lurched back down to its default position as he crushed the empty can into his fist. He studied Richard for a long time, as though he was somehow having difficulty recognising him. But finally a glimmer of comprehension flickered to life.
“What exactly would you do?”
“Sabotage. I mean something big. Something fucking big. Remember what I was telling you about Georges Sorel?”
“And you’re volunteering…?”
“Sure, why not?”
“Count me in, man.”
A wall of sound slammed through the room as The Sex Pistols’ God Save The Queen blasted out. The punks immediately started pogo-ing in a frenzy, forcing the hippies lazing on the floor to reluctantly create space for them. The guy who had been singing Leonard Cohen songs left the room, meekly cradling his guitar to prevent damage. Stuart had to shout:
“We should go and see Eddie with this idea. He’ll know what to do about it, or he’ll know someone that does.”
2. Eddie’s Kitchen
“This idea of yours is aw very well but you realise it could put us aw in jail?” Eddie’s mean, feral eyes stared at Richard accusingly through heavy black-rimmed glasses, making him look every inch the wee Glasgow hard-man he aspired to be. Richard had been invited round to his flat to go through the sabotage plan for the third time and it was becoming clear Eddie had little faith in either him or the plan. They sat in the cold kitchen to avoid disturbing Eddie’s dad who was watching TV in the living room.
“It could, but this is what we’re here for isn’t it? Handing out pamphlets to people who chuck them into the first bin they walk past will never get us anywhere. We’re supposed to be a revolutionary party not a pamphlet distributing party.”
They sat in silence. Richard wondered if he’d pushed Eddie too far. Anyway, he was past caring. He looked round the cold, outmoded kitchen. There wasn’t much there to soothe their nerves; an old-fashioned pantry, solid enough to withstand nuclear attack, had been painted yellow in an attempt at modernity. A worn-out Tricity cooker, covered in grease. Pitted brown linoleum on the floor. A ceiling pulley for hanging washing on.
The council had vowed to build modern flats ‘fit for heroes’ but, somehow, they had created drab, grey schemes instead. Out in the street there were no facilities; no shops and nothing to do. Inside there was no comfort. Attempts to cheer up the interiors of these houses nearly always ended in tragicomic kitsch – in this case exemplified by the wallpaper with its repeated pattern of crowing cocks. Perhaps the cocks had provided a few moments of jollity once, but they had been crowing at least since the mid-sixties and looked a bit worn-out. To top it all, there was a lot of tyre screeching and occasional gunfire coming from the living room. The TV was blasting out at maximum volume to compensate for Eddie’s dad’s deafness.
“So what sort ay event do you think’d be sufficient tae trigger revolution in the UK?”
“It would have to be big, Eddie.”
“So big it’s impossible?” Eddie asked slyly.
It was clear Eddie thought he wouldn’t or couldn’t go through with it and was just looking for an excuse to avoid marching and agitating – the sort of party work that Eddie thought was essential. “Eddie,” Richard was trying to contain his anger.
“Eddie, when Marx was writing he expected a revolution eventually, but he never lived to see it. Well, we’ve had dozens of attempts since then. We’ve got the USSR and China to show for it – OK, Cuba and stuff like that too. None of these were good or real revolutions. We still haven’t seen what Marx was expecting. We need something better, more final. And it has to be in an advanced economy not a backward one. So if this puts me out of action for a while as far the Party’s concerned – even if it takes my whole life – then so be it.”
“Richard,” Eddie was obviously annoyed too, “yur always making excuses. Nothing is ever good enough fur yuh. You think no socialist country ever succeeded in improving the lot of the people? Well yer wrong. The USSR is an improvement on the Tsarist Empire. Things huvney worked out perfectly but this is the real world.”
“Yeah, but…”
“And don’t forget the USSR’s always been at war,” Eddie said, ignoring Richard’s attempt to interrupt. “They hud tae fight the revolution, then the counter revolution, then World War Two. Now we’ve got the Cold War. So they’ve been fighting proxy wars all over the world. But in spite ay aw rat thur still making progress.”
“Yeah, but the USA’s made greater progress.”
“The USA did well frae both world wars by sucking the British dry. All I ever hear from you is how great these Capitalist countries are, nothing about the achievements of Russia or China.”
Richard could tell Eddie needed more evidence of commitment before he could take this risk. He wondered if he should perhaps tell Eddie about his Uncle Bobby who, according to family legend, had gone to the USA and had tried to start up a union to improve working conditions. He was immediately arrested and soon after that died in prison. Reason for death – unknown.
But he decided not to bother. It was only a story anyway. It had all happened before he was even born. Furthermore, it proved nothing. He wasn’t aware of any sense of following in Uncle Bobby’s footsteps. Moreover, particularly now that he’d come up with this plan, he preferred his motives and beliefs to remain invisible in order to be more effective. So he decided to bite his tongue.
To prevent himself blurting out any story about his Uncle Bobby, he dug his nails into the palms of his hands and glowered at Eddie.
“They’re more advanced Eddie, just like Marx expected. That’s all.”
3. The Black Worms
(Moscow – 2012)
Years of nothingness had passed. The promises, the beliefs, the hopes, had turned to numbness.
Richard paused in the middle of pulling his left sock off and stared – confusion oscillating between fascination and horror. There were awful dark indigo bulges on the top of his foot in the flesh just beneath the skin. It seemed that parasitic worms of some sort had hatched out in his bloodstream.
Tentatively, he traced a finger over the bulbous nodes where their translucent, tubular bodies overlaid one another, half expecting to see them begin to writhe and twist deeper into his foot, or burst out leaving trails of filthy, contaminated blood. But as he examined them he knew they wouldn’t. For they were not parasitic worms – they were something even worse – more portentous.
Varicose veins. He was starting to get varicose veins now! He sighed. Of course! Of course – this was just one more thing he was going to get as he got older. Varicose bloody veins! He shuddered at the ugliness of it – and sighed again. The inevitable was happening; as the inevitable always would. He removed the other sock.
And now he would have to face it. Another day had ended. Another night of sleeping alone in a strange bed would bring it to a close, leaving him to trust his subconscious mind to guide him to the next dawn, through whatever voyage of darkness or dreams that sleep would bring.
He glanced over to the far end of the room. The pale, naked creature he saw there made him flinch momentarily. But he consoled himself that being an unremarkable middle-aged man with mousey hair was a strength. It was a form of camouflage
The glance into the mirror had been unintentional. At home there would have been no mirror to glance into, intentionally or not. But, as usual, thanks to VirtuBank, he was staying in a hotel. This time he was spending a few days in Moscow, though for no particular reason, because the technical problem their client had reported had turned out to be trivial.
And this was how his adult life had been measured out – moving from one hotel to another, sometimes returning briefly home (if his flat near Baker Street could be called home) to seek out a few acquaintances to get drunk with.
But he was lucky. He was still here, and his life still had purpose too. The period of numbness was over. Now, at VirtuBank he had a glimmer of hope. He had stumbled into a job which gave him a real chance of achieving his dream.
He hadn’t been in touch with his friends from college for years. The only people he had known since that time were workmates that came and went as he changed job. Even so, he was lucky. He was well aware that, by now, many of his lost or forgotten friends would already be dead. He knew that for certain. It was both surprising and obvious.
For example, he was aware, from the media, that so many of his teen idols had passed away already. Admittedly, film and rock stars seem likely to die younger than normal due to suicide or substance abuse. Nevertheless, a good proportion of them had also died in accidents or of natural causes, indicating that a similar fate would have befallen some, or perhaps by now, many, of the people he had ever known in the past.
So he was lucky. If he had been John Lennon he would have been dead long ago. But time was running out for him too. Had he cut himself off from any kind of normal life, that fateful day in 1977, for nothing?
The cause he had sacrificed his life for was worth more than the life of one man, but somehow he was not ready to accept his contribution to that cause would amount to nothing. He still wanted his place in history. He climbed into bed, weary and close to tears, trying to convince himself there was still a chance; that the promise he had made all those years ago was worth the misery and loneliness.
4. In Plato’s Cave
(Helsinki – 2013)
Andy Mitchell sat at his desk, staring at the paper in front of him. Somehow it had all become too much. Past failures crowded in on him. Even Richard. Especially Richard – he was going to be the biggest failure of all. What were they doing to him? What use was any of it? Everything he had ever done had unravelled.
After their meeting in Helsinki, Mitchell wondered what good would come of it.
Almost none, probably. He didn’t blame himself for that aspect of this whole mess. He had followed the correct procedure. Well, as much as possible. He’d reported back to Skinner that the procedure didn’t seem to work properly – it had been even worse than the previous time.
Skinner didn’t seem to give a damn except that Mitchell hadn’t got Richard’s signature in the correct way at the proper stage.
But he had dismissed all that nonsense from his mind by now. Even if he’d got the signature in the proper way, what difference would it have made? Richard wasn’t real any more. How could his signature be of any importance? Richard hadn’t been in touch since and everything was still in the drawer waiting to be collected. Perhaps Richard had decided to do nothing about this whole thing and keep himself out of harm’s way. So much the better if he had.
Later, in the bar, it was clear at least no lasting damage had been done – in as much as Richard, or some husk of his being, had no recollection of anything he shouldn’t know about.
Mitchell imagined how, to Richard, the world must be made of shadows projected into his consciousness. It must be a strange way to live. Like living in Plato’s cave.
As he put his signature to the paper, it was suddenly blurred by a teardrop. The tear surprised him. But then he simply folded the piece of paper twice, put it in an envelope and tucked it into the inside pocket of his suit. His best suit that would soon be ripped to shreds, covered in black oil and soaked in blood.
◆◆◆
The shadows of two men are walking together but on separate paths. Where is this place? We are floating in space. The brightness is too bright, the darkness too dark.
Mist begins to obscure the blinding brightness. Cloud-like wisps lightly tumble upon themselves, thickening into shadow, making everything incomprehensible. Slowly, it begins to rotate, like a dying galaxy.
Then nothingness.
Yet there is a sense of something new; something approaching.
Hidden by shadow, something disturbing is near and getting nearer. Vermiform, it oozes from the darkness. A colossus; tattoos on its long, limbless body glisten like rubies, emeralds, sapphires and countless other multicoloured jewels as it emerges. It moves by undulating lazily, pushing before it a head in the shape of a blunted lozenge. It hesitates, then goes forward again, zigzagging from shadow into ever brighter light, revealing shimmering fractals glittering on its surface. It is magnificent! A fallen angel. A Lucifer.
Its monster head, an expressionless mask, moves from side to side, seeking prey. Its metal eyes hunt.
Suddenly the head splits wide open, transforming into a gaping pink mouth, exposing fangs like curved needles. Richard woke up. He was bathed in sweat.
It was that dream again. Why did he keep having nightmares about a damned snake?
5. By Email
(London – 2013)
Andy Mitchell was dead. The email said so.
“How can they be telling me this by email? It must be a hoax – a spoof email perhaps?”
Having just awoken from the nightmare about the snake, everything still felt unreal to Richard, so he found it hard to take in. A fake email from HR would mean there was a breach in the firewall. But a serious breach in security for an email like this wasn’t at all likely. The message was real. Andy Mitchell was dead. Richard reread it a dozen times wondering what could’ve happened to his boss. A heart attack? Car accident? The email didn’t say.
He remembered the last time he saw him. It was while he had been staying in the Grand Sokos Hotel for a project. Mitchell had suddenly turned up in Helsinki and rang his room at quarter to midnight. It was summer, so it was still broad daylight. He had got dressed again, gone down to the lounge bar to meet Mitchell and they had drunk until three a.m. By then they must’ve been as pissed as newts. His recollection of what had happened was very hazy. To start with, the conversation had been normal enough. Mitchell had talked enthusiastically about music and playing bass for some band in his youth. But then he turned a bit odd. He became more and more morose. Suddenly it all came out as anger. He ranted for a while about what a bitch his wife was. He mentioned he was in serious debt.