Oblivion (Part 8)

Later that day, the collection of mundane civilians who had entered the Eel shop had become a picture of revolutionary fervor.

Some of the group were clearly excited by the novelty of wearing a uniform and aimed invisible rifles out of the windows until shouted down by more serious comrades. The group, dressed in dark green fatigues (a contact in Malaysia was able to ship over some equipment used in jungle warfare) discussed in hushed tones the briefing they had received from their Branch commander.

They were to step onto the streets at 1900 hours and commence their advance.

Adelaide Cox sat alone in one corner of the room. He had the habit of being overly introspect and pensive before big events. And this was more than just a big event – it was THE event that he had been secretly making himself ready for over the course of the last five years.

“I wonder what Maisie is doing right now…” he thought to himself.

He imagined his wife preparing dinner for the children and talking to their neighbor over the picket fence as they did most evenings. He looked over at his comrades. They had formed small groups and were talking familiarly, but he didn’t harbor any sense of exclusion just yet.

---

An hour before the moment of action, the group of men was becoming increasingly anxious. Cox had gotten through an entire packet of cigarettes in about three hours and a few of his comrades’ gazes dashed around nervously. The policeman who had led Cox into the Eel shop stood with his back to the alleyway entrance and, curiously, had not changed into one of the supplied uniforms.

“Coming with us?” Cox asked the policeman.

“No.” – the policeman answered without making eye contact.

Strange.. thought Cox. The Operation would need as many able bodies as possible. The policeman, strong and presumably well-disciplined, would have been an asset.

A few of the men had begun speaking in a whisper. Cox caught one of the men whisper something to another and then look directly at him.

What’s going on..

He steadied himself. Perhaps it was the paranoia that had haunted him over the last five years coming back. After all, leading a double life for this long leads a man to become excessively suspicious. But he was sure of something: the atmosphere in the room had changed.

---

1855 – the hour had come.

Slinging his trusty rifle over his shoulder (he had all but forgotten his confrontation with the Mayor that had occurred yesterday), Adelaide Cox was ready to go.

The other men, equipped with a rag-tag bunch of weapons, had fallen silent.

Finally the Operation was about to emerge from the shadows and onto the streets. The world was about to see the vision of the Founder in all its glory.

The men had formed a line within the Eel shop pantry. Cox, having been the last to arrive was going to be last out of the door.

The policeman stepped away from the alleyway entrance and allowed the first men outside. They quickly broke into a run as they rushed take positions along the canal.

The wait was torturous as each man filed out – Cox anticipated his moment with a sense of anxiety which was increasingly turning to horror.

Three, two, one…

Cox stepped towards the door. But as he was about to step outside, the policeman moved his body across the entrance.

“You’re staying here”

Cox was baffled.

He turned around to appeal to the Branch commander, but he had disappeared. Only he and the policeman were left in the room.

“What the hell is going on?” Cox protested.

At that moment, a slow set of footsteps could be heard coming down the stairs into the pantry from the shop above. The boots made a sound that Adelaide Cox had heard many times before. The leather soles hit the stone staircase with the sound of a hammer coming down on a brick.

A man, resplendent in ceremonial garb, appeared at the foot of the staircase.

Cox froze in terror.

“Adelaide! We had such big plans for you! But… but you had to go and ruin it.”

The Mayor had returned to visit the Commissioner.

They Lived (Part 7)

“Adelaide Cox, just where did you go?”

Marc sat up in bed, smoking and staring up through the half-opened skylight. The Paris night was warm and dusky, making it hard to sleep. But the thing that kept Marc awake was not the heat. He could not help but ponder the investigative roadblock that had stopped his research in its tracks.

Adelaide Cox, ostensibly the highest-ranking civil servant in Hackney, 1910, appeared only once in the archival record. He appeared from nowhere and disappeared like an apparition from the historical deep.  Marc had considered the possibility that Cox was a recent arrival in London, perhaps from the Commonwealth, somewhat explaining the lack of documentary trace. But to be parachuted straight into the top job and then to vanish almost immediately after? Not a chance.

Marc got out of bed and started pacing. He thought of calling his girlfriend to take his mind off the conundrum, but it was 3AM and he thought better of it. She always patiently listened to his intellectual sketch-making but lately he had felt her growing tired of his recent obsession.

Marc grabbed his scarf (it always helped him think) and the keys to his bike-lock. A late night trip to the library beckoned.

---

Only a handful of people occupied disparate desks in the cavernous Central Library. Coffee-fueled researchers (and a few Philosophy readers on cocaine) pawed textbooks at the hour before dawn.

Marc wracked his brains to try and remember any part of the British History archive that he had not delved into.

Births and deaths. Check.

Planning applications. Check.

Newspapers. Check.

Marc had single-handedly exhausted the documentary record for 1910 and was about to give up. He stared forlornly across the large mahogany paneled reading room and sighed.

“Where did you go…?”

But then, something caught his eye which made him sit up rigid in his seat. A girl a few tables away was reading An Inspector Calls.

The police record – the one thing Marc hadn’t checked.

---

It was now 2 PM. Marc hadn’t eaten all day, fueled by strong coffee and cigarettes he turned the pages of the 1910 police record with none of the respect owed to such an old document.

Muggings, street violence, vandalism… all apparently blighted the days of Hackney at the turn of the century. The names of the convicted and the officer first on the scene were recorded meticulously recorded dates and times of offence.

July, August, September 1910… Marc was becoming discouraged as he drew close to the end of the year of Cox’s Commissionership.

But then, turning a page at the end of the October file, he saw it and let out a gasp.

Twenty-five men, Saturday, October 25th, 1910.

Conspiracy to Commit High Treason

The last name in the list of twenty-five:

Adelaide Cox.

Occupation: Commissioner.

 

 

Razor’s Edge (Part 6)

“Gentlemen, I will keep this brief. We have neither the luxury of time nor the option to hesitate.

Operation Razor’s Edge is underway. The leaders of the nationwide Branches should each be assembling their units in a similar fashion as we are now. This Branch, thanks to the arrival of Adelaide Cox, can finally be considered fully mobilised. You have all risked life and limb to get here, you may even have needed to take life to ensure your arrival in this room…”

The speaker, who was stood at the front of the gloomily lit pantry, paused and glanced at Cox before continuing.

“Six years ago, the seeds of this movement were planted as our benefactors met at Inverness Castle to discuss a nationwide Operation to seize control of these isles and enact the vision that our Founder so benevolently passed on to them.

You were all contacted due to your likely sympathy to the Founder’s vision and by the grace of God we assemble today as ready operatives. You each will have likely changed a great deal since you were contacted six years ago. You may have had families, you may have changed profession and you may have even had moments when you doubted our Founder and his vision.

But what matters is that we are here today, as alive and willing as the moment the original fire was lit and ready to bring Operation Razor’s Edge to fruition.”

The room, sleep deprived, disheveled and restless, nonetheless hung on every word that speaker at the front had to say.

Adelaide Cox sat at the back of the group and listened carefully for further instructions.

“Logistically speaking, we are in a very good position. Our contacts have delivered on their promises of armaments and we will be able to equip you shortly. If all goes as planned, we should not have to fire a single shot further. But, as is the nature of the Operation, confrontations with the incumbent authorities may exist should their dissolution not materialise as smoothly as we hope.

As a London Branch our task may appear the most intimidating. We are in the closest proximity of the state apparatus and our mission here is perhaps the most risky. Parliament is just five miles away, yet every step to that most symbolic of locations will be hard won. You must be prepared to fight should the situation arise.

That is all for now. Delaney will provide you with the correct equipment and your uniforms. I expect to hear news from the Central Branch shortly and will be able to brief you all finally in a couple of hours. Until then, rest up and familiarise yourselves with your equipment.”

Adelaide Cox gave an affirmative nod that was at the same time a signal of understanding to the speaker but also a way of assuring himself that this was it.

The next time he stepped onto the street, he would no longer be Adelaide Cox.

Liason (Part 5)

A single bead of sweat appeared on Cox’s forehead and slid down to his cheekbone.

The policeman wearing the thistle had stopped directly infront of the port-hole about 20 metres away from the boat next to the garden wall of the nearby row of houses. He looked identical to any other Metropolitan Police officer – upright, vigilant and possessing an authoritative expression that probed the area for anything untoward.

But Cox was certain this was him. His contact in Inverness had never given him anything but the most meticulous instructions – besides, any ambiguity would risk the entire mission.

He steeled himself to approach the officer and he checked his hand for the code word (he had written it in pen in case he forgot which state he was instructed to mention.)

He emerged from the narrowboat, crouching for the low door but never letting his gaze leave the officer stood planted next to the wall.

“Morning officer”

The Commissioner greeted the policeman with a cheery disposition that was slightly suspicious for a Londoner at 7 AM.

 

“Hello citizen,” replied the officer, indeed a little standoffish.

“I just wondered if you could point me in the direction of Broadway Market? My brother from Oklahoma is coming to visit and I’m due to meet him.”

Cox was worried that he had spoken the codeword too soon or even mispronounced it.

“Oh, you’re not far,” the officer said. “Just follow the canal until you get to the third bridge along.”

Cox’s heart sank. Was this not his contact?

He didn’t want to linger and accepted the directions gratefully like any common citizen would. He strode along the canal – terrified at having apparently blown his cover speaking to an agent of Her Majesty’s government. He had to find another hiding place, but where?

But then, no more than fifty metres down the path, a gloved hand grasped onto his left shoulder.

“Come with me Comrade, we have been expecting you.”

It was the police officer.

Silently the pair peeled off the main path and onto to small path that led to behind the establishments on Broadway Market. Their pace had not quickened from the brisk stroll that Cox had set, but there was a distinct anticipation in the way the officer led the pair into the alley.

A door opened to their right,  apparently willed open by an unseen presence.

Cox recognised this location, although he had never entered from the kitchen porter’s entrance. It was his favourite Eel shop in the East-End – little did he know that the place where he took his beloved wife on their first date would become the headquarters of an audacious plot that would shake the world to its very foundations.

 

 

 

 

 

The Narrowboat (Part 4)

He was absolutely exhausted and becoming increasingly anxious. Inside the narrowboat which he had commandeered from an unsuspecting river dweller, Cox placed his rifle on the stovetop. He threw off his bandolier of cartridges (he hadn’t fired another round since taking out The Mayor) and collapsed on the small bed which the boat’s owner had left unmade.

All he could do was wait.

Cox had chugged about a mile down the Regent’s Canal in the direction of Central London since taking the vessel. It was around midnight and very few people were walking along the towpath, which was a relief to the Commissioner, as he was probably the most wanted man in London  (if not the country) by now.

He moored the vessel alongside another, seemingly abandoned, boat.

When he laid his head on the thin mattress at the stern of the boat he closed his eyes. He was surprised how easy it had been to kill The Mayor and how easily he had found it to slip into sleep. Maybe it was simple fatigue or indeed something more sinister.

The Commissioner slept until dawn.

He woke with his Mosin next to him. With a groan he rose up and stumbled towards the small kitchen area. He fumbled around and managed to find a bag of coffee and began to use the gas stovetop to boil some water. Waiting for the water to boil he fingered through yesterday’s copy of the Standard – to any observer he looked like any other river dwelling bachelor starting the long weekend.

“KING CARLOS I OF PORTUGAL ASSASSINATED!” read the headline.

Cox knew the culprits. But they too would be long escaped, perhaps hiding in a cave or bunker, awaiting their next move. The world was about to be flipped on its head.

On the next page he lingered on the racing pages and began to read a pre-match analysis of the weekends FA Cup final. He caught himself becoming distracted,

“Remember the mission Adelaide” he said, annoyed at himself.

He poured a cup of coffee and stared out of one of the small port-holes on the starboard side. It was here that he had been instructed to meet his contact at 7AM. All he knew was that the contact was going to be wearing a thistle on his lapel and would repeat the same code-word: ‘Oklahoma.’

Cox spent the next half hour entranced. He was slightly nervous but in a way looking forward to making contact with someone who was also part of the mission. He looked through the port-hole at every passer-by, trying not to catch their glance as they walked not one meter away from the side of the boat.

It was 6:55AM.

The tow path had gotten slightly busier as some early risers made their way over to the nearby Broadway market. A wafting smell of frying bacon drifted along the misty canal.

And there he saw it, purple and green, a thistle-head picked that day and pinned on the coat. But Cox did not rise to greet who he expected to be his Comrade.

The thistle was pinned on a policeman’s coat.

 

The Envelope (Part 3)

(Warning: the following instalment contains scenes of extreme violence)

The Commissioner stood frozen over the envelope. He knew that opening the letter was no trivial act – it would undoubtedly change his life forever. Body rigid, Adelaide Cox reached down and picked up the envelope. He picked up a small dagger-shaped opener and slid it into the fold of the paper. Ripping open the seal, Cox let out a sigh.

The handwriting was familiar.. it really was him. Just one line:

-The time has come comrade, the moment we have been waiting for. Execute the plan.-

Adelaide placed the letter down and looked out of his small window. The passers-by, the music hall, his wife and children… all things that were now mere ornaments, mementos of a life that was no longer his.

He felt a sudden wave of sadness come over him. But never one to succumb to the sentimental, Cox took a deep breath and slammed his fist on the table.

“Alea iacta est,” he whispered under his breath.

He reached into his pocket and fumbled around for a key that opened the bottom draw on his desk. He lifted out a false shelf, under which lay a sawn-off Mosin Nagant rifle, the pride of the Russian Empire.

Cox examined the barrel and firing mechanism. The rifle had been of course untouched whilst he fulfilled his day-to-day duties as Commissioner and Adelaide was concerned that the dust from the office had somehow compromised the weapon. After the brief inspection (the rifle was indeed fine), Cox slung it over his shoulder using the leather strap.

He spent a few minutes tidying his office, which he knew he would not see for a very long time, or perhaps, never again. He was briskly packing away some papers on his windowsill when he was frozen rigid by the voice of someone in his room.

“Commissioner, don’t forget you’re meeting with the local planning committee tonight!” said the sprightly voice in his doorway.

It was Adelaide’s secretary, Maria.

Cox turned around and faced Maria, who let out an involuntary gasp.

The Commissioner, now wearing a bandolier of shimmering Russian rifle cartridges, was a fearsome and intimidating sight.

“Maria, wait! It’s not what it looks like!” Cox said excitedly.

“It’s OK, Commissioner! I can come back another…”

Maria was too afraid to finish her sentence and quickly ran from the door and down the corridor.

“Damn it!” Growled Cox

He proceeded to gather up his possessions: briefcase, coat, and of course, the letter. He stepped out of the office without locking it and strode down the corridor.

He was just about to enter the main lobby of the Town Hall when he was met with the person of the Mayor, red-faced and clearly en route to the Commissioner’s office.

“Jesus H!” cried the Mayor. “What the hell is all this Cox? Armaments in a municipal building? This is grounds for immediate dismissal!”

Adelaide Cox locked eyes with the Mayor and did not speak. The Mayor’s florid face quickly paled and he slowly began to step backwards from The Commissioner, putting about 10 feet between the two men.

The empty lobby, normally bustling with clerks and secretaries delivering papers and coffee to various corners of the building, fell stony silent.

With a few seconds hesitation, which to both men felt like minutes, The Commissioner reached down to his side and pulled the rifle up to his shoulder.

“Sorry Alfred…”

Birds in the square outside scattered and women with strollers talking in the street halted their conversations and looked with wonder at the Town Hall.

The Mayor dropped to the ground into a pool of scarlet blood. His coat jacket smoked around the wide hole that the high powered cartridge had punctured. He twitched slightly, but the shot had ripped his heart wide open and he died within seconds.

Cox stepped over the Mayor’s body which had slumped in the doorway of the Town Hall. Standing on the steps of the Hall he surveyed the scene of concerned onlookers.

The plan was in motion.

 

 

 

Fragments of a life (Part 2)

University of Paris-Sorbonne, June 1995

With a roll-up cigarette, horn-rimmed spectacles and clad in a black wool scarf  (in the middle of June), Marc looked every bit the intellectual-in-training whilst perched on the fountain outside the Sorbonne. The Latin Quarter was buzzing with eager students rushing to afternoon lectures, Gilles Deleuze was giving a talk on Spinoza at three o’clock and a queue was already forming in the square in which Marc was sat.

Marc however took no interest in the metaphysical – for all he cared, a cigarette was a cigarette and the most important scholarly work produced in the last thirty years was Oasis’ Definitely Maybe, the CD of which had not been removed from his Walkman since last summer. Marc’s studies took place in the History faculty and specifically, the early twentieth century British History department – a dour and inconsequential academic pursuit as judged by most of his peers at the Sorbonne. Why bother yourself with morose Edwardians when, across the Channel, the Belle Époque was in full swing?

Nonetheless, a passionate Anglophilia drove Marc to seek out stories that had played out beyond his own shores. Perhaps it was the need to escape the confines of his own nation’s way of thinking, or was it just the chord progression on Live Forever that had inspired his search?

He was working on a masters dissertation entitled: ‘Monumental dedications in 1900’s London’ and had been gathering up a trove of inscriptions, photographs and archival records. A recent trip to London and a visit to the Borough of Hackney Archives had proven fruitful, everything was going according to plan and he hoped to have everything submitted on time by September. A year-long sabbatical awaited in Australia whilst he plotted his next move onto a PhD or to teacher training college.

But Marc appeared agitated whilst sat outside the huge wooden doors of Paris’ ancient university. Flicking through a handful of photocopied census records that he had brought back from London, he abruptly flung the pile down next to him.

“Putain! -” He exclaimed and flicked his half-smoked cigarette into the fountain.

Gathering up his possessions he stormed back into the University and onwards to the library.

For the whole afternoon he poured over his weighty portfolios of municipal records that the archivists in London had kindly put together for him. He had the terrible habit of grinding his teeth when in deep concentration and muttered both encouragement and curses towards his stack of papers, eliciting numerous “Silence s’il vous plait!’ from those unfortunate enough to be seated near to him.

Marc’s purturbation was not elicited by something missing from his meticulously gathered research documents but instead something he had found. A key personage appeared in one of his documents almost without precedent – the highest ranking functionary of the local council in 1908 no less. This was someone who Marc assumed would have held other notable positions prior to taking up such a position. But instead he appeared out of nowhere, a man with no roots or traces of his career in the archives. The bare fragments of a stone inscription dated to the same year and a payroll document were the sole attestations to the existence of the head of Hackney Council back in 1908.

To Marc, Commissioner Adelaide Cox a man of but stone and ink. A puzzle that had made its way into his hands.

 

 

 

 

The Commissioner (Part 1)

“This stone plaque, remaining in place over many centuries, will bear witness to an unshakeable sense of purpose and dedication befitting the eternal cause for which it is laid. Your work, glorifying the Lord and his divine will, can only be destined to succeed under such righteous circumstances.”

As Commissioner Adelaide Cox came to the end of his speech in front of the assembled  local dignitaries and Salvation Army members, he paused for few seconds, as if momentarily hypnotised by some unseen force.  It was a surprisingly warm October afternoon in the Borough of Hackney and many of the attendees at the ceremony were becoming flushed and impatient having overdressed for the conditions.

The Commissioner hadn’t put much thought into his speech, indeed he didn’t need to, being an old hand at ribbon cuttings, ceremonial openings and of course, the bread and butter of any Commissioner’s public work, plaque unveilings. But he was not his usual self today. Indeed the day had begun in a way that had made the Adelaide Cox lose his sense of anchoring in this world. Usually an assured man with a purposeful air, he stood rigid on his speakers podium and appeared cut adrift from those who he would usually consider his good and upstanding local constituents.

The Mayor, young for a man of his position and seemingly impatient with the proceedings, began clapping as it was not clear whether the Commissioner had anything left to say. The rest of the crowd joined in enthusiastically, apparently relieved that the speech was over and that the reception could begin inside. Looking a little startled, Adelaide came to his senses, joined in the clapping and came down from the makeshift podium.

As the crowd filed into the newly opened Salvation Army branch on Mare Street, the Mayor went over and placed a hand on the Commissioner’s forearm.

“Cox, are you alright? You seemed a bit out of it up there.”

“Oh yes, fine, just a little trussed up in this scarf! You wouldn’t believe it’s October would you?”

“Shall you come inside and have a drink? It’ll bring the colour back to your face.”

“No, I…”

The Commissioner paused and looked over to the town hall building.

“…I have some correspondence I need to deal with before the end of the day,”

The two shook hands and Adelaide crossed the road then quickly climbed the stairs into the modern town hall building.

The role of Commissioner, despite being the most senior position in the council, was a new post that had been created the previous year and for this reason Adelaide’s office appeared as an afterthought in the buildings layout. He weaved through a labyrinth of committee rooms and conference chambers until he came to his door, Office 3.44B, adjacent to the post room. 

He hadn’t passed anyone in the corridors but he checked for traffic nonetheless. Delicately placing his key into the door he opened it in such a way that made no sound. Drawing shut the blind over his door window, the Commissioner went over to his desk and opened a locked drawer that contained nothing but a single manila envelope. Seemingly disappointed that it remained in his possession, Adelaide placed the brown package of  papers on the leather surface of his desk.

He sighed.

The Commissioner’s address was boldly written out in a black ink and four stamps had been used as if to allay any fears that the package would not get to its intended recipient. Over the stamps was a large postmark, from which Adelaide knew immediately the contents and consequence of the mail:

“City of Inverness, 29th September, 1910.”