Franey Border Lines

1. Auflage 2025
ISBN: 978-1-915568-76-2
Verlag: Dedalus Original English-language fiction
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, 375 Seiten

Reihe: Dedalus Original English Fiction 10/6/25

nionistsWhen a filmmaker and a British civil servant get caught up in the endgame of the Irish Troubles in 1997, they find themselves crossing borders that are ethical as well as physical and are forced to make lethal choices. Perdita Burn is a journalist with a track record in political documentary; Daniel Booth a British government press officer with a document to leak - a startling revelation about the Irish Troubles. A bomb explodes in South Armagh and Perdita is shocked to realise it was predicted in Daniel's document, suggesting collusion between some part of the security services and paramilitaries in Northern Ireland. Her attempts to investigate draw her into ever murkier territory, political and personal. Back in London, Daniel realises he's being used as a pawn in the struggle between those who want to bring peace to Ireland and vested interests set on prolonging the war. As the plot darkens, it becomes clear that most of the people in this story are traitors of one kind or another - some deliberately, and perhaps bravely, like Daniel; others drawn gradually over the line.

Ros Franey began working in television just as Cry Baby, her first novel, was originally published in 1987. Cry Baby was reprinted in 2023 in the Dedalus Retro list. Ros Franey's career has been in documentaries, predominantly for ITV, Channel 4 and the BBC. Her non-fiction book with Grant McKee Time Bomb about the 1974 IRA bombing campaign and the Guildford 4 has just been republished Border Lines is her third novel.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Franey, Ros

Leseproben

CHAPTER 1

Autumn 1997

On the morning Daniel Booth’s life was to change forever, he made toast, fed the cat and set out for Whitehall, just as he did every day of the working week.

The document arrived in his morning mail. He knew it must be a mistake, yet his colleague Vernon Potts said mistakes were as impossible as a cash dispenser paying out the wrong amount of money. Daniel had noticed that although Vernon was new to the department, he was very certain of everything.

‘Computers don’t make mistakes,’ Vernon assured him. ‘The only thing to go wrong with computers is the human beings that program them.’ Daniel rummaged through the jumble of news releases, periodicals, information briefings on his desk and found the brown internal envelope: BOOTH, D, 105, his room number, handwritten. The error was human. A quick glance told him the document was about Northern Ireland: no surprises there. What was the British Army getting up to now? He started to read. It was in the form of a memo, most of it taken up with a list of places, numbers beside them. A few of the places he had never heard of but others were familiar, and not in a good way. Something about the document didn’t feel right: this was definitely not for him. Stuffing it back into its envelope, he took it to his boss, Tiffin, and pointed out the error.

‘I’m not cleared for this. It must be for one of the others.’

Major Tiffin was the senior information officer. ‘Damn cretins downstairs. Did you read it?’

‘No, Major.’ If the minister could lie to Parliament, he told himself, Daniel could lie to Willy Tiffin.

‘Good man. Done the right thing. Let’s see…’ He reached for the internal directory then, taking a new envelope from a stack beside him, wrote the correct address. ‘Thank you, Daniel. Bad mistake. Pop it back in the post, there’s a good chap. I’ve got to shoot off now.’ And he bustled out of the room.

Where was Tiffin sending it? The room number scrawled on the new envelope was an inversion of their own: 501, the executive floor. This document must be top secret. Daniel was about to slip it inside when his eye caught the paragraph at the end of the list. He froze. Within half a minute, he had read the whole thing, one hand steadying himself on the corner of his metal desk. Oh my God, he breathed. Who knew about this stuff? He read it again: it was surely untrue, yet here it was. He couldn’t just let this pass.

The office was deserted and, for once, quiet. Fluorescent lights in the high ceiling illuminated the tattered poster of the Red Devils at Harpenden Air Show. Daniel stood up. In the grimy glass masking the inner well that served the room with fresh air, he saw his mirrored face, the smudges of eyes beneath the hair his mother had called fair but was probably just mousy; a man who at thirty-five felt young, but sensed time slipping quietly away. He thought of the Official Secrets Act he had signed. Is this what it was for: obedience to a set of lies? Clear-headed, he knew he was about to behave badly; and that it was the only decent thing to do.

Carefully folding the top corners to conceal the memo’s reference numbers, he walked over to the photocopier and punched in his code. The start button flashed green. Daniel placed the sheet face down on the glass screen and pressed the button. The obsolete copier gave an intestinal rumble but no clean copy slid from its tightly strained jaws; instead, the flashing of three small orange lights and a message with a hint of menace: CLEAR JAM IN AREA 1 OR. Vernon’s internal phone rang. Sweat started from Daniel’s armpits. He reached across to Vernon’s desk and jerked the receiver off its hook. ‘Press Office.’

‘Oh, hello. Is that the press office?’

‘Speaking.’

‘Oh, hello. Consignments Section B12 here. I wonder if you can help?’

‘I’m afraid the officer you need isn’t here at the moment. Can you call back in half an hour?’

‘I’m sure you’ll do. I’m enquiring about copies of Form M11[b]/B ordered by your section last Thursday…’

Daniel could hear footsteps coming down the corridor. He felt as if arteries were about to explode through his chest. ‘Would you hold the line a moment?’ he asked.

Vernon swung through the door, the turn-ups of his slightly-too-short grey flannel trousers flapping at his ankles. Daniel’s phone rang. ‘Christ,’ said Vernon.

‘This one’s for you!’ Daniel waved the receiver at him.

Vernon, ignoring him, picked up Daniel’s phone instead. ‘MOD Press office. Sure. I’ll get him for you. Daily Mail,’ he said to Daniel. ‘Challenger 2. You look awful,’ he added. Daniel’s stomach turned over. They swapped telephones. As he listened to the man from the Mail, Daniel’s eyes ground into Vernon’s back.

‘Nothing to do with me, I’m afraid,’ Vernon was saying to the woman from Consignments.

‘Can you repeat that?’ asked Daniel, his mind on the incriminating document stuck inside the machine.

‘Call after lunch and speak to Miss Hare,’ Vernon instructed in a no-nonsense voice. He put down the receiver and strode towards the photocopier.

‘I’ll have to phone you back,’ Daniel told the man from the Mail. He put his hand over the mouthpiece. ‘It’s broken!’ he called to Vernon.

‘Bugger,’ said Vernon.

Daniel took the number of the man from the Mail, rang off and darted over to the copier.

‘I’ve got to distribute the submissions on the AS-90 by three,’ Vernon grumbled.

‘Bloody madhouse,’ Daniel agreed. ‘Phones going all over the place. Can’t get anything done. And I’ve got to go to the dentist this afternoon.’ He nudged Vernon out of the way. ‘CLEAR JAM IN AREA 1 OR…’ a second message appeared: ‘…REFILL CARTRIDGE’. Daniel started to fiddle with the release catch on the paper tray. To his relief it was empty. He refilled it, reset the copier and pressed the button. This time the copied memo peeled into the out-tray. Vernon had lost interest. Daniel carried both papers back to his desk. ‘It’s all right now,’ he said casually.

He slipped the original into the internal envelope Tiffin had addressed earlier and folded the copy into a blank envelope, sealed it and put it in his briefcase. Vernon had seen nothing. Then he opened the file on Challenger and dialled the number of the man from the Mail. Bloody tanks. It was definitely time to move on.

*

Perdita Burn stepped out of the restaurant and turned up towards Oxford Circus. Sushi. She felt for the toothbrush in her pocket, mindful of the hygienist. She had fifteen minutes to get to Welbeck Street.

She’d hoped the walk would restore her spirits, but the more she thought about what had just happened, the more unnerved she felt. It wasn’t supposed to have been a work meeting. She’d been surprised when Nick had arrived with his briefcase and a young man Perdita had never seen before.

‘This is terrific,’ said Nick, beaming at Perdita. ‘Must be—what? Eighteen months, at least.’ Perdita saw him notice the absence of her wedding ring. ‘You look great,’ he told her. She smiled back at him. Nick was her mentor: the man who had given her chances, trusted her judgement on risky occasions. It was for him her best films had been produced. Over the years they had become friends as well as colleagues. So why was this stranger to share their lunch? Perdita turned to Nick’s companion expectantly.

‘Oh, this is Jeremy,’ Nick announced. ‘I thought it would be good for him to come and meet the guru.’

Perdita felt neatly dated. She took in Jeremy’s expensive haircut, his designer jeans.

Nick was saying, ‘Meet the woman who brought us some of our greatest successes, Jeremy. I hope you two can form as good a relationship for the future… As I expect you’ve read,’ he told Perdita, ‘Jeremy is our new head boy.’

‘Congratulations, Jeremy!’ Perdita said. She wondered what this meant.

‘You didn’t see the piece in Broadcast?’

Perdita shook her head. ‘I always forget to read Broadcast,’ she admitted.

Nick’s eyes narrowed. ‘Unwise, Perdita. You need to keep up with it, otherwise you might miss the news of your own assassination!’ If she hadn’t read Broadcast, he continued, she might not know about the changes.

Perdita’s last two films had been for a different channel and she was suddenly on her guard. As soon as the waitress had guided them to a table, Nick in his laconic way informed her that there was to be restructuring in Factual. He’d still be around, of course, but Jeremy would be doing the commissioning.

As they talked, Perdita sipped at something she suspected to be seaweed tea and watched Nick carefully. He was looking tired, she noticed, and suddenly felt protective towards him. Had he persuaded himself that his promotion, if that’s what it was, would be as interesting as the money? Or had he been given no choice? She realised he was sticking his neck out to introduce her to the new man, and was touched. New men preferred new brooms. Jeremy looked bored.

Despite its menu the restaurant was workaday, no-nonsense. It was not a place you took people for atmosphere.

‘Sorry it’s not Zulu.’ Nick grinned at Jeremy. Jeremy shrugged. Perdita knew Zulu. She had once taken her daughter Daisy there on demand. It was full of people like Jeremy. Perdita knew Nick knew Zulu wouldn’t do for Perdita, because Perdita was too old. ‘Zulu is so...