The Eye of the New Century
by Clare Fisher
Hello there, I’d like a confession please.
Pardon? No… I’d like to make a confession.
The last time? Oh – when I was a boy. I’ve been so dedicated to my work since then, that I’ve not had the time.
That’s what’s been bothering me, you see – my work. Well, I say work; ‘calling’ would be the more accurate description. For three decades I have been part of what, for security’s sake, I shall call the ‘hush-hush’ sector. However, I fear that my actions of late have – to put it mildly – thrown my suitability to my calling into doubt. For Father, I have sinned so deeply that not have I dishonoured my own person. Oh no, I have done far worse; I have plunged into the gravest danger she whom I hold most dear – Great Britain herself.
My ‘slide’ began six months ago, when, ironically, I received a promotion. In a new project which – let’s say – was called ‘The Eye of the New Century,’ I was made what –let’s say – was called ‘Grand Ouster of Suspiciousness.’ It was my privilege to watch twenty mechanical eyes – or cameras, if you will – for any signs of the aforementioned characteristic.
It took a few weeks for me to find any suspiciousness to oust. My man – let’s call him John – emerged from a restaurant, talking on a portable telephone. The restaurant was a gleam of silver elegance. John was an unshaven scruff. Suspicious. His skin – incidentally – was of a hue suggesting origins in sunnier climes. I ‘zoomed’ in.
He walked over to the brick wall flanking the restaurant. Peering round, evidently to ensure that he could not be seen from inside the restaurant, he put the telephone in his breast pocket. He brought out a small, dark object, which looked – I should point out – much like a grenade. He squatted down. He fiddled about with the wall, but his hands were behind his back so I couldn’t see what he was doing. He stood up, empty handed, and returned to the restaurant. I zoomed into the wall, but there was no evidence of it having been tampered with. It was as if he had performed a conjuring trick. Most suspicious indeed.
Later that evening he emerged from the restaurant with a lady on his arm – his wife. Oh how perfectly she fitted with its elegance! Rotund in the manner that is common for women in the ‘middle ages,’ but which I find rather becoming, she was swathed in white linen. Her hair was a dazzling blonde and her face – the only way to describe it is as immeasurably kind and noble. They passed his conjuring spot and he glanced back at it furtively.
‘Irrefutable evidence of suspiciousness’ was the verdict I gave my superior the following day. And how did he respond? He laughed! Having expected to be granted special priorities – do not forget, the nation herself was at risk – this came as quite a blow. Given he’s a good deal younger than me and what some would undoubtedly refer to as a ‘lad’ or possibly, a ‘geezer’, this was humiliating in the extreme.
I did not, however, let humiliation divide me from calling. I kept an eye – all twenty of them, no less – on the restaurant. That night, John returned. With a different woman. Well, I say woman; ‘girl’ would be a better description. She too was blonde, although I could only assume this was by virtue of a peroxide bottle, for she – let’s call her Aileen –was of a similarly tarred hue to John.
They sat directly in front of the window so I had a good view. He was doing most of the talking. He kept on leaning towards her, but each time he did so, she edged subtly away.
They left the restaurant. As they passed the conjuring spot, John bent down, as if to do up his shoelace. But his hand strayed towards the wall. He pulled out a brick, and out tumbled the grenade. Aileen’s gaze was in the opposite direction, so he tapped her ankle and gestured towards it. With a look of bemusement, she picked it up. Much to my annoyance, she looked at it with her back turned to the cameras, so I was still unable to see the object in any detail. She bundled it into her handbag and although smiling and nodding profusely, there was an unmistakable look of terror in her eyes.
Needless to say, I voiced my concerns to my superior again. This time, I chose my words more carefully. I said that I had strong reasons to suspect that an Arab was storing grenades in a central London restaurant. This was undoubtedly part of a wider arms trade operation which, should I be given oral and visual access to his private abode, could be swiftly uncovered.
Although laughing and referring to me as ‘old boy’, my superior did as I wished. Over the next few weeks, I – came to know more about John than anyone else in the world. He was wealthy in the extreme. He was born – incidentally– the same year as I, but in Iran. A relation of the Shah, he had to escape his native country as a young man when those Islamist revolutionaries took over. With his excellent linguistic skills, soon found employment as a translator with an oil company. When he was only twenty three, the age – incidentally – that I found my calling, he met his wife, who I’ll call Molly. They acquired a house in one of those elegant, leafy quarters of north London. Delightful children followed. By the time I came to know him he held total responsibility for his company’s dealings with that most renowned region of suspiciousness; the Middle East.
So as you can see, he had nothing to complain about. Yet his affair with Aileen was conducted with this sole purpose in mind; not ‘fun and games’ but complaining. He told her his job was soulless. All he wanted was to be an artist. He was nostalgic for his region of birth, but his wife being – and I quote – ‘English through and through’ did not understand. He wanted to devote himself to ‘things that matter.’ Aileen, although from Cairo herself, rarely responded enthusiastically. Judging by the Englishness of her accent, she had made far more effort to ‘fit in’ than he and was as sceptical of his words as I. It was all very suspicious indeed.
And poor Molly; she had no idea what danger she was in. I even heard her tell John how delighted she was that, now that their children had left home, they could finally have some time to themselves. It broke my heart.
The conversation I relate next will dispel any lingering notions you might have –and which would be quite normal for someone outside of the ‘hush-hush’ sector– that John was merely suffering from a ‘mid-life crisis.’
John and Aileen were on the sofa in his living room. It was a most elegant room. There was a Persian rug on one wall. Aileen looked rather ‘down in the dumps.’
‘What is it?’ he asked, putting an arm around her shoulder. ‘Aren’t you excited? I’ve thought of nothing else for weeks.’
‘I – I can’t do it. It was kind of you to ask, but my heart isn’t in it. It’s not right. I don’t want to go to Cairo.’
John looked dismayed. ‘But you said you felt as out of place here as I. Anyway, it’s too late for me to back out now.’
He turned around and stared mournfully at the Persian carpet. No doubt he was imagining himself hob-knobbing with some bearded guerrillas.
‘No,’ she said, in a very small voice.
‘But, when I gave you the’–
She threw his arm off her shoulder. ‘Look John, this has been fun, but I’ve had enough. It’s not what we agreed to begin with; we both know that. I’m going now – please don’t contact me again.’
She stood up and walked over to the door. He followed her.
‘Wait,’ he pleaded. ‘We’re only getting to know each another. And I’ve risked everything for you.’
‘I never asked you to. Go back to your wife, stay in your job. Don’t throw it all away over your silly plans. Goodbye.’
The door slammed. John slumped back onto the sofa, and curled into a ball. His body, swamped by the sofa cushions, shook with childish sobs. Even though this was somewhat unsettling, I watched for a while, in case he came out with some revealing Shakespearean soliloquy. But the sobbing grew so loud that I had to switch off the screen, lest it damage my ear drums.
It was a clear case of what we in the sector call ‘High Emergency Potential.’ Gathering together everything I have just related, I submitted a ‘Suspiciousness report’ to my superior.
An entire week passed and I received no response. So I telephoned my superior, telling him in a firm, even angry manner, how perturbed I was by this state of affairs. This, I should point out, is very much against ‘hush-hush’ etiquette, but having invested so much – dare I say – of my spirit, I was unable to contain myself. To my dismay, he seemed not to know what I was talking about. He laughed, and said:
‘Oh…. That. Yes, I’ve been meaning to contact you. The hooker, the saucy young thing – she’s not from Egypt at all. She’s from Croydon – just likes a bit of the old sun bed. Turns out she does all the Imams of London, so we’ve gotten her on board – she’s all wired up – she didn’t hesitate, not after we showed her the cash – and we get to listen to them while they’re at it. Brilliant isn’t it? Now, if you’ll excuse me.’
He ‘hung up.’ A dangerous man was prowling the streets of London, putting our best citizens at risk, and no one but me was willing to act. With my investigation officially terminated and my privileges thus revoked, I had no choice but to take a more… interventionist approach.
I sent a copy of John’s guilty acts to poor Molly. So that she did not think this was a mere a case of adultery, I included the Cairo conversation I related to you.
A week later Molly returned to the restaurant, alone. She looked sad and vacant. Over the next week, she returned several times, also alone. She was safe. But who was to say that she wouldn’t try to contact John, and unwittingly place herself in grave danger?
It was in this – dare I say – chivalrous spirit that I visited the restaurant. I timed my visit to coincide with Molly’s and seated myself at the table adjacent to hers.
When both our meals had arrived, I leaned over and said something to the effect that it was silly for us to both dine alone, and would she mind if I joined her. She looked a little startled – perhaps she was not used to such friendliness– but nodded.
Once a sufficient quantity of small-talk had passed between us, I asked – leaning forward in what I hoped would remind her of the more affectionate aspects of her husband’s countenance – whether she was ‘quite alright.’
She put down her cutlery.
‘No, not as it happens.’
‘Do you mind if I enquire why?’ I said.
She wrinkled her eyebrows, no doubt in discomfort at the memories my question had brought up.
‘Well… my husband has left me.’
‘Oh dear. I’m so sorry to hear that,’ I said.
‘Yes. It was so sudden. We were happily married – for more than two decades. This was our favourite restaurant.’
‘Didn’t he give a reason?’ I asked.
‘Yes, he left a note. But all it said was that he was sorry, he couldn’t ‘live the lie’ anymore, and he’d gone to Cairo to be an artist.’
‘So there was no … mention of another woman?’ I asked.
The look of discomfort returned to her face.
‘No,’ she said, tilting her head in concentration, ‘but there was something a bit odd about the note. It was folded inside an envelope. The envelope was addressed to the both of us, but he had evidently got to it before me, and removed whatever had been inside it.’
‘Suspicious, if you ask me.’
‘No, no I don’t think so. It was probably just another charity plea or something.’
‘Have you… tried to contact him in Cairo?’
‘Yes, but I can’t find any trace of him.’
‘Highly suspicious.’
She shook her head.
‘No, just frustrating,’ she said. ‘There’s so much I need to know. Like why didn’t he tell me he wanted to be an artist? There was, I remember now, a time a few years ago when he did a bit of painting. They were awful, and I told him so – we were always honest with each other, you see. He did look a bit disappointed but he never mentioned it again.’
‘He didn’t show any other signs of … suspiciousness?’
‘Well, he did take one of my brooches with him. His mother gave it to me as a wedding present. It had been in their family for centuries. It was beautiful, but it was its box I liked best – hand-carved mahogany. It was almost as if… he wanted wipe out all trace of the years we’d spent together.’
There were tears in her eyes.
‘Sorry’, she said, dabbing her cheek. ‘There are too many memories here – it was just outside that he gave me the brooch.’
She cocked her head in the direction of his conjuring spot.
‘We had just got engaged. He stopped to tie up his shoelace. At least, that was what I thought, until I looked down, and saw that a brick lay pavement. He was reaching for something inside the wall. ‘Surprise!’ he said.’
When I did not reply, she flushed.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I don’t know why I’ve told you all this. You don’t want to know.’
‘Oh, quite the contrary. I suspect your husband has been up to more than meets the eye’ I said, perhaps, in retrospect, a little too enthusiastically. ‘This sort of thing happens more and more these days. Who know where our dear country will end up. Such immorality should be punished – the state must show a heavy hand!’
My voice must have risen without me meaning – as it is prone when something excites me – for she looked quite alarmed by the time I had finished.
‘I’m not sure I know what you’re getting at,’ she said.
‘Oh, I think you do. What we need is a system of ensuring that everyone, no matter where they come from, adheres to British standards of behaviour.’
She looked – although it pains me to say it– close to anger.
‘I’m afraid I don’t agree. I can’t believe I’ve just disclosed so much to someone with such opinions!’
She stood up, pressed a wad of notes into the waiter’s hand, and left.
This incident has, I’ll admit, caused me an unprecedented degree of distress. I’ve ruined this good woman’s life for no reason – if only it had occurred to me that John might get to the incriminating evidence before she could see it! And I failed to communicate sufficiently, to both my superior and to Molly herself, the seriousness of the situation. Why, why did I not take her in my arms and vow to protect her? Why did I not tell her the truth? Oh it is too much to bear, too much.
I fear, too, that because of my guilt, I have missed further instances of suspiciousness. There have, of course, been one or two. A girl reading a book whilst walking along. A loitering, hooded figure. A man pressing his lips up against a shop window. A Big Issue seller eating a Cornish pasty. But not one of these instances carries the symbolic suspiciousness as John’s. He was my one chance to show my dedication to my calling and – oh! – I have wasted it!
Shortly before I came to you – the reason in fact for my visit – my superior informed me that I was to suffer… a demotion. And all because he thought someone more ‘with it’ would do a better job. When I return from talking to you Father, I shall no longer be chief ouster of suspiciousness, merely ouster. Oh! It is too much to bear.
I’ll admit I was at first reluctant to disclose my failures. However, having told you the whole story I feel… why, almost… enlightened. It is not my fault if neither my superior, nor Molly – nor any other of my colleagues for that matter – fail to see what is before their noses. I and I alone am the Eye of the New Century, the one destined to diagnose and correct its problems. It is only correct that I pay Molly a visit at home, then track down John in Cairo. It is – as may have already mentioned – the nation herself who is under threat.
So thank you, Father, for showing me the error of my ways of thought. I will, no doubt, return again soon.
What’s that? Three hail Marys. Yes, of course.