TT Fic: Seeing the Light, 18/26.
Fic: Seeing the Light, Chapter 18/24. Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6 Chapter 7 , Chapter 8 , Chapter 9Chapter 10, Chapter 11 , Chapter 12 , Chapter 13, Chapter 14 , Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17
Pairing: Overall OT4/5. This part Mark/Other, Mark/Robbie, Gary/Howard.
Rating: NC-17.
Words (this part): 3,500.
Genre: Adventure, Angst, Sci-Fi. Unintentional Top Gear crossover.
Summary: Gary's career takes an unexpected turn, but Robbie's day of glory is not going to plan...
Warning: Interminable markie whumping...
Thanks to EWT for the wonderful beta and awkbyname for the lovely manips. Also to amy_wolf and asilia for the lovely chats - with you guys, I might just finish this thing soon (ish)!!
Chapter Eighteen
The black Rolls Royce waiting outside their apartment block instantly put Howard on high alert, especially when an armed guard jumped out, and saluted ‘Commandant Barlow.’
‘Did you order that car?’ he whispered to Gary, shooting the guard his most portentous glare.
Gary shook his head, frowning. Howard alone always walked him to work. ‘I suppose it is an important night. Maybe somebody from Party HQ sent it?’ He addressed the chauffeur with an authoritative air. ‘You can go, man. I have no need for a car.’
However, the chauffeur did not go. With firm politeness, he informed Gary that he was to report to Chancellor Mingay’s office immediately - and, as Gary whispered to Howard, he knew better than to argue with that sort of order.
‘I’m sure it’s just something about the speech,’ he reassured Howard, as they climbed into the back. ‘It’ll be fine, mate, don’t you worry.’ Howard did worry, though. He always worried about Gary, because was all he had left, and he loved him.
The car was at Downing Street in less than five minutes, where Howard was left waiting in a plush, portrait-lined corridor, pacing up and down, clenching and unfurling sweaty palms and wishing that he’d somehow managed to touch Gary as they’d sat in the backseat of that car, sharing wide-eyed looks. He tortured himself by imagining that their every illicit kiss had betrayed them, and wouldn’t let himself be comforted by wondering exactly why they were here, at the hub of all the awfulness and power, rather than dragged off to rot or die in the nearest, crowded jail?
After fifteen minutes, Gary walked out of the office, his cheeks flushed and a strained, rather mystified smile on his face. Looped through Gary’s arm was that of the Chancellor, a man that Howard had hitherto seen only in portraits and in artfully angled shots on the news. In real life he was grey-haired and hunched; frail even.
‘Superintendent Donald?’ smiled Mingay, offering out his hand. ‘So pleased to meet you. You have an important job ahead of you, my son!’
‘I ‘ave?’ stuttered Howard, and then remembered himself. ‘Uh, yes, honour to meet you, Chancellor. Um...’ Words failing him, he looked desperately at Gary, who managed to explain a little more, albeit in a rather shaky voice.
‘Howard, what the Chancellor is telling you is that you’ve an important job ahead as my bodyguard. Um, you see, tonight Chancellor Mingay is going to resign. And he’s going to name me as his successor.’
............
‘What is wrong with you?’
Richard turned on Robbie, anger flashing in his eyes. ‘What the hell is your problem? We’ve brought a fucking ton of Semtex, and you only want to use less than half as much? That’s not going to even shake this crappy little cellar, let alone sent Cowell’s head sailing into the stratosphere and straight on to the end of my pointy stick. Look, I’ve worked this out, and we need...’
‘Shut the fuck up,’ mumbled Robbie, raising his eyes to the vaulted roof. They were in the basement directly beneath the House of Commons now, and it was all going well; too well. Cowell had said they would just be able to walk in up the tunnel from the train line and he had been predictably right. But Robbie had been expecting to at least have to take out a couple of guards, and break through some sort of heavy door before they just waltzed into their target zone. It was all too easy.
Killing more people than they ever had before was going to be too easy, as well. It made him nervy and tetchy. And why did he keep thinking about Gary Barlow?
A sharp slap about the cheek snapped him back to the task in hand; reflex actions kicking in, Robbie grabbed Richard’s collar, and slammed him back against the wall.
‘Keep your mind on things!’ snarled Richard, viciously shoving Robbie away. ‘Tonight is it, right, so don’t go all limp-wristed on me!’
Robbie glared at Richard. Richard glared back, his teeth clenched, his hissing breath hot and fast against Robbie’s throat. Finally, Rob felt his own adrenaline starting to pump.
Yeah, tonight was the night; tonight he was going to truly become a legend and it was great, being here with Richard. Yeah, so Richard would never be Mark, but he was his mate, they’d bonded in their way, and it was Richard who had stuck with Rob on his road to superstardom. He mustered an expression caught somewhere between a smile and a grimace and, letting his emotions take over, went to pull Richard into a hug.
Richard backhanded him, fast and hard.
‘I said don’t go fucking go soft on me! Fuckin’ hell, I’m not angelboy...’
Robbie spat blood to the floor, his swearing trailed off into a rueful laugh. ‘No, mate, you’re really not...’
‘What was that?’
Richard squeaked and jumped, momentarily as scared and startled as an electrocuted bunny rabbit. Robbie reached into his jacket: it was his communicator bleeping. Trying to be as casual as possible, he read the message.
‘Rob. Want to drink to it? I’m at the Palace, and Mark’s with me. Simon.’
Rob shoved the communicator away quickly. ‘It’s Andy. Says he’s got some more Semtex. That prat from the Isle of Man came through after all.’
Richard punched the air, and made a quiet-ish ‘woohoo’ noise. ‘That’s brilliant! I’ll go get it?’
‘No, no! I’ll go - I’m shit with the wiring, right? You check stuff. Won’t be long.’
Robbie was gone, before Richard could even swing another punch, to the air or otherwise.
....................
Cowell’s ‘man’ caught up with Robbie whilst he was still making his way up the underground tunnel and led him straight along an old railway line to St. James’ Palace. He showed Rob up to Cowell’s drawing room; and then he left them alone.
Cowell smiled graciously; Robbie was dressed all in black with a woolly hat on his head, and was glaring almost as darkly.
‘You said Mark was here.’
‘He’s upstairs,’ said Cowell. ‘You can see him in a bit. Briefly, mind - he’s tired. But first, I wanted to have a little chat. Just you and me. And I wanted you to see this.’
Cowell switched on the TV, and a breaking news banner flashed across the bottom of the screen.
‘Australian Anarchist Rising Crushed!’
Cowell shook his head slowly. ‘It’s all rubbish. The rising hasn’t been crushed - it’s been years in the planning, and it’s been a success. And it’s been inspired by some very, very dangerous people.’
‘I like anarchists,’ pointed out Robbie. ‘I am one! Good luck to ‘em.’
Cowell snorted. ‘Yes, and most of them are probably as brainless as you, mate, but they’ve got thinkers among them. Men who possess a vision that you and your mates lack, and one of them is very dangerous to us. Ever heard of Jason Orange, Rob?’
Robbie wracked his brain. That name was vaguely familiar, but he just couldn’t place it.
‘Never mind,’ dismissed Cowell. ‘Point is that he’s dangerous. He knows Barlow - at least, he knew Barlow. And if those two get together, everything we’ve worked for could be threatened.’
‘Hold on, mate! I’ve not worked for anything apart from destroying this shitty government! I’d be happy to buy several pints for this Jason bloke - erm, just as soon as we make alcohol legal again!’
‘Maybe you can,’ shrugged Cowell. ‘The only important thing is that Barlow never finds out about him.’
Robbie scratched his head. He usually paid fairly little attention to Cowell’s machinations, just taking the weapons and snatching the few moments he was given with Mark, but this time the constant reference to Gary Barlow bothered him.
‘How do we know that Barlow doesn’t already know? Eh? Eh?’
‘Because he’d have done something about it, if he had. Barlow thinks that Orange is dead and he, himself, will die believing that. Tonight.’
‘I still don’t get why the fuck that matters?’
‘It doesn’t. Just make sure Barlow dies, and I’ll take care of Orange. You want that drink?’
Robbie shrugged. ‘I’d rather see Markie. Erm...why does Barlow have to die?’
‘I suggest you have this drink, Rob, and I’ll tell you all about it.’
Robbie sat down with a large glass of brandy, as Cowell started to tell the tale that he already knew snatches of, but had never thought about too deeply.
‘Six years ago,’ started Cowell. ‘Just before I left the Party to set up on my own, I was involved in an experiment: an experiment which was not an accident. Back in Brittanic City 3, we found a scientist who had mastered the theory and practice not only of wormhole but of quantum physics. He built a device that could look into a thousand possible futures - and we used it to find out that a group of young men were destined to shape the futures of our civilisation as we know it. You have to understand, though, that these futures were very different. In some of them, the world even now, in 2002, was completely different to the world we are living in. But, in many of those futures, the men who paved the way to the future were you...’
Robbie couldn’t contain a smug nod and grin.
Cowell’s grin, however, outdid even Robbie’s for smugness as he added: ‘...and, more importantly, me! That’s how I knew I had to get you on board. But, you see, we haven’t quite reached that future yet - and there were plenty of possible futures where something approximating the Mingay regime lived on, although not under Mingay. Instead, standing there all smug and pompous was...’
‘...Gary Barlow! I fucking knew it!’
‘You’re sometimes a lot less stupid than you look, Rob,’ laughed Cowell. He topped up Robbie’s glass. ‘Get it now? And that Orange fellow, he was no good, either. Dangerous man that, written a load of awful poetry about peace and passive resistance and love and, worst of all, wooden fucking boats...dangerous, subversive stuff. But regimes come down with a bang not with a whimper, right?’
‘Too right!’ laughed Rob, and downed his second glass. ‘Can I see Markie now?’
‘I don’t see why not.’ Simon smiled, pressed a button on a little switch box and said in a low voice. ‘Will somebody bring my wife to me, please?’
A few minutes later, Mark appeared in the doorway, shadowed by a large minder; but, for a moment, Robbie was oblivious to everything in the world apart from Mark. He was dressed in a tight white t-shirt and a pair of equally snug-fitting trousers; his glossy hair had been neatly styled and straightened and the outfit was finished perfectly by a thick black choker, snug against the pale skin of his throat, and a pair of matching black cuffs at his wrists. For a moment, Mark just looked at Cowell, his expression glazed and indifferent; and then he laid eyes on Rob, and his smile sparkled.
Cowell visibly leered at his wife, and started saying something to Robbie about ‘it’s a shame I can’t show him off like that in public’. Mark ignored him completely, and seconds later he was enfolded Robbie’s arms.
‘God, it’s good to see you,’ he breathed.
Robbie held him tightly, rubbing his cheek against Mark’s soft hair. After a few seconds, though, Cowell coughed impatiently and Mark drew away a little.
‘You okay?’ asked Mark, scrutinising Robbie closely. Robbie was grinning, but he was also visibly trembling; still holding Mark, he turned to Cowell, jutting his chin in the air defiantly.
‘I do what you want tonight,’ said Robbie. ‘Then I take Mark away with me.’
Cowell laughed, folding his arms. ‘No fucking way!’
Robbie shrugged. ‘Your loss, mate. I’m not going to kill Barlow for you, unless I get what I want for a change.’
‘Don’t be a fool, Rob, I’ve given you everything you wanted for the past six years...’
‘What did you say?’ Even as Cowell was talking, Mark pushed Robbie away suddenly. ‘Did you say Barlow? You did, didn’t you?’ Mark looked wildly at Robbie and then at Cowell, who had now shut up, thudding his palm to his forehead. ‘Do you mean Gary Barlow? Do you? Tell me!’
‘Well done, Rob,’ hissed Simon. ‘You’ve really put your foot in it, haven’t you?’
‘Are you talking about Gary Barlow?’ Mark was shouting now, thudding his fist against Robbie’s chest.
‘Yeah! Ow, fucking hell, Mark...yeah, it’s Gary Barlow, the guy you arrived here with, but he’s a fucking Pig and...’
Mark paused a second, his world whirling ever faster. When he started shouted again, he found he just couldn’t yell loudly enough. Cowell was closing in on him, but that was unimportant. He kept screaming. Six years he had kept quiet and just taken it all. Not anymore.
‘No!’ screamed Mark, lashing out even as Cowell tried to grab him from behind. ‘I’M NOT GOING TO LET YOU KILL GARY!’
Mark’s right hook impacted hard with Cowell’s jaw; Cowell staggered backwards, momentarily stunned; Robbie just stood and stared whilst Mark rounded on him, jabbing his finger accusingly.
‘You’ve got to fucking listen, Robbie! Gary is a good guy. You know that, deep down! You’ve got to help him!’
Robbie waved his arms defensively, and started saying ‘I never fucking met him’; he hated himself for upsetting Mark like this but, without any thinking time, he hadn’t a clue what else to do. When Cowell grabbed Mark suddenly by the wrist, yanked him around and backhanded him viciously across the cheek, however, everything became more straightforward.
Mark crumpled to the floor, apparently senseless. Robbie lunged at Cowell, grabbing his collar and began wrestling and grappling with him; they were rolling across the ground, kneeing and spitting at each other, when Cowell’s security men burst through the door.
.......................
Cowell lifted Mark onto the sofa while Robbie watched and swore, his wrists clamped in metal handcuffs.
‘You hurt him!’ yelled Robbie, undecided whether he should sob or take the gamble of trying to head-butt Cowell to death.
Cowell regarded the nasty, temporarily disfiguring red bruise across Mark’s left cheek angrily, although he’d worked out it was the cut above Mark’s left temple, sustained when he knocked him over, that had rendered him unconscious; there was a little trickle of blood, seeping from just above Mark’s hairline. He glared at Robbie.
‘This is all your fault. How many times have I told you never to mention Barlow in front of him?’
‘You never!’ protested Robbie, not entirely truthfully. He remembered now, of course, but Simon was always talking a lot of crap about what he should and should not do, and unless there was a direct ‘you better do this, or Mark dies’ sort of threat attached, he rarely paid attention.
Simon huffed crossly, slipped a cushion behind Mark’s head, and rose. ‘Look, you’d better get out of here before he wakes up or you’ll just make things worse. And, Rob?’
‘What?’
‘You hit me again, I will kill him.’
Robbie pulled a disdainful expression. It had almost become a hollow threat, but Robbie had never quite become brave enough to test it. As Simon unlocked the cuffs, Robbie found he still wasn’t quite brave enough - yeah, he could knock out Simon, maybe, and gather Mark up in his arms, but fighting his way out of the building with him would be tricky, to say the least.
Besides, Robbie had work to do.
‘Use your brain and kill Barlow for us,’ said Cowell, his voice a low whisper. ‘Do that - and I’ll let you have Mark. Not forever, but yours for a whole night. You get me?’
Robbie glared like a maniac, flexing his wrists, and hoped to hell this was the right decision because, like so often, he really was winging it now.
‘Yeah,’ he breathed. ‘I get you, mate. I blow up Parliament - Barlow dies. And I get to use your favourite fuck toy...’
His head throbbing like hell, Mark felt sick; in fact, whilst overhearing Robbie and Simon’s conversation, he realised he was going to be sick. He wanted to scream, but more in frustration than anything. He’d felt helpless a thousand times over the past few years, but never more so than at that moment.
He listened to Robbie swear and leave, the door slamming behind him; then he listened to Cowell’s heavy footsteps pad over, and sensed him lean down.
‘You heard that, didn’t you?’ said Cowell smoothly.
Mark was almost proud of his perfect timing, as he rolled over and was sick all over Simon’s very expensive suede shoes.
...................
Robbie passed Cowell’s private doctor on his way down the stairs towards the cellars of the palace, from where he would exit into the subterranean maze beneath the pavements of Brittanic City 1. The notion flashed through his mind of trying to get a message to Mark through him, just something like ‘Rob says he won’t’, but he didn’t quite know how to go about it. The man would probably look at him like he was mad, and then just tell Cowell. So he decided it was more important to let the doctor get to Mark quicker, and for him to get to ‘Hamster’.
And somehow break it to Richard that they weren’t going to blow up Parliament today, but that they were going to break into St. James palace and rescue ‘clone fucking angel boy’ instead.
Robbie pulled a face to himself. That was going to be a tricky one, although he could bribe Richard with the prospect of still having Cowell’s head on a pointy stick before the day was out - and possibly be telling the truth for once.
He was still worrying about this, when his route was blocked by one of Cowell’s ‘staff’.
‘You can’t go that way. One of Mingay’s underground patrols is due. You’ll have to go out the front door, across the park, and go down at the old tube station entrance by Parliament. They’ll be gone by that time.’
Rob grunted, but did what the bloke said, stomping out of the front door in such a way that nobody would have suspected he was the ‘most wanted’ man in the country, because he was just too obviously up to something. He didn’t even bother to pull the hood of his jacket up as he strolled across Mosley Park. Robbie was past caring; he actually found himself wanting to be recognised.
As it happened, he was recognised by a police officer in green combat fatigues, who was hurrying in the other direction - but, even then, things didn’t pan out quite as Robbie predicted.
‘Rob?’
Robbie did a double-take. Did he recognise this guy? There was something about him, but he couldn’t quite work it out.
‘Rob! Bloody hell, it is you. Look, I don’t think you remember me here, but we knew each other...somewhere else, and we met once before.’
Robbie just gawped at him for a second before summoning up a smug grin.
‘You’re talking shit, mate. You know my face because I’m a fucking megastar anarchist and I ought to shoot the shit out of you RIGHT NOW!’
But the policeman wasn’t that easily cowed - in fact, he didn’t seem even the slightest bit scared by the nation’s top anarchist, instead insisting. ‘Look, my names Howard. Howard Donald. And I’m a friend of Gary Barlow’s. And Mark Owen’s...yeah, you remember Mark, don’t you?’
‘’course I bloody do,’ snapped Robbie, before his brain caught up with him. ‘I were with him just five minutes ago!’
TBC...
Pairing: Overall OT4/5. This part Mark/Other, Mark/Robbie, Gary/Howard.
Rating: NC-17.
Words (this part): 3,500.
Genre: Adventure, Angst, Sci-Fi. Unintentional Top Gear crossover.
Summary: Gary's career takes an unexpected turn, but Robbie's day of glory is not going to plan...
Warning: Interminable markie whumping...
Thanks to EWT for the wonderful beta and awkbyname for the lovely manips. Also to amy_wolf and asilia for the lovely chats - with you guys, I might just finish this thing soon (ish)!!
Chapter Eighteen
The black Rolls Royce waiting outside their apartment block instantly put Howard on high alert, especially when an armed guard jumped out, and saluted ‘Commandant Barlow.’
‘Did you order that car?’ he whispered to Gary, shooting the guard his most portentous glare.
Gary shook his head, frowning. Howard alone always walked him to work. ‘I suppose it is an important night. Maybe somebody from Party HQ sent it?’ He addressed the chauffeur with an authoritative air. ‘You can go, man. I have no need for a car.’
However, the chauffeur did not go. With firm politeness, he informed Gary that he was to report to Chancellor Mingay’s office immediately - and, as Gary whispered to Howard, he knew better than to argue with that sort of order.
‘I’m sure it’s just something about the speech,’ he reassured Howard, as they climbed into the back. ‘It’ll be fine, mate, don’t you worry.’ Howard did worry, though. He always worried about Gary, because was all he had left, and he loved him.
The car was at Downing Street in less than five minutes, where Howard was left waiting in a plush, portrait-lined corridor, pacing up and down, clenching and unfurling sweaty palms and wishing that he’d somehow managed to touch Gary as they’d sat in the backseat of that car, sharing wide-eyed looks. He tortured himself by imagining that their every illicit kiss had betrayed them, and wouldn’t let himself be comforted by wondering exactly why they were here, at the hub of all the awfulness and power, rather than dragged off to rot or die in the nearest, crowded jail?
After fifteen minutes, Gary walked out of the office, his cheeks flushed and a strained, rather mystified smile on his face. Looped through Gary’s arm was that of the Chancellor, a man that Howard had hitherto seen only in portraits and in artfully angled shots on the news. In real life he was grey-haired and hunched; frail even.
‘Superintendent Donald?’ smiled Mingay, offering out his hand. ‘So pleased to meet you. You have an important job ahead of you, my son!’
‘I ‘ave?’ stuttered Howard, and then remembered himself. ‘Uh, yes, honour to meet you, Chancellor. Um...’ Words failing him, he looked desperately at Gary, who managed to explain a little more, albeit in a rather shaky voice.
‘Howard, what the Chancellor is telling you is that you’ve an important job ahead as my bodyguard. Um, you see, tonight Chancellor Mingay is going to resign. And he’s going to name me as his successor.’
............
‘What is wrong with you?’
Richard turned on Robbie, anger flashing in his eyes. ‘What the hell is your problem? We’ve brought a fucking ton of Semtex, and you only want to use less than half as much? That’s not going to even shake this crappy little cellar, let alone sent Cowell’s head sailing into the stratosphere and straight on to the end of my pointy stick. Look, I’ve worked this out, and we need...’
‘Shut the fuck up,’ mumbled Robbie, raising his eyes to the vaulted roof. They were in the basement directly beneath the House of Commons now, and it was all going well; too well. Cowell had said they would just be able to walk in up the tunnel from the train line and he had been predictably right. But Robbie had been expecting to at least have to take out a couple of guards, and break through some sort of heavy door before they just waltzed into their target zone. It was all too easy.
Killing more people than they ever had before was going to be too easy, as well. It made him nervy and tetchy. And why did he keep thinking about Gary Barlow?
A sharp slap about the cheek snapped him back to the task in hand; reflex actions kicking in, Robbie grabbed Richard’s collar, and slammed him back against the wall.
‘Keep your mind on things!’ snarled Richard, viciously shoving Robbie away. ‘Tonight is it, right, so don’t go all limp-wristed on me!’
Robbie glared at Richard. Richard glared back, his teeth clenched, his hissing breath hot and fast against Robbie’s throat. Finally, Rob felt his own adrenaline starting to pump.
Yeah, tonight was the night; tonight he was going to truly become a legend and it was great, being here with Richard. Yeah, so Richard would never be Mark, but he was his mate, they’d bonded in their way, and it was Richard who had stuck with Rob on his road to superstardom. He mustered an expression caught somewhere between a smile and a grimace and, letting his emotions take over, went to pull Richard into a hug.
Richard backhanded him, fast and hard.
‘I said don’t go fucking go soft on me! Fuckin’ hell, I’m not angelboy...’
Robbie spat blood to the floor, his swearing trailed off into a rueful laugh. ‘No, mate, you’re really not...’
‘What was that?’
Richard squeaked and jumped, momentarily as scared and startled as an electrocuted bunny rabbit. Robbie reached into his jacket: it was his communicator bleeping. Trying to be as casual as possible, he read the message.
‘Rob. Want to drink to it? I’m at the Palace, and Mark’s with me. Simon.’
Rob shoved the communicator away quickly. ‘It’s Andy. Says he’s got some more Semtex. That prat from the Isle of Man came through after all.’
Richard punched the air, and made a quiet-ish ‘woohoo’ noise. ‘That’s brilliant! I’ll go get it?’
‘No, no! I’ll go - I’m shit with the wiring, right? You check stuff. Won’t be long.’
Robbie was gone, before Richard could even swing another punch, to the air or otherwise.
....................
Cowell’s ‘man’ caught up with Robbie whilst he was still making his way up the underground tunnel and led him straight along an old railway line to St. James’ Palace. He showed Rob up to Cowell’s drawing room; and then he left them alone.
Cowell smiled graciously; Robbie was dressed all in black with a woolly hat on his head, and was glaring almost as darkly.
‘You said Mark was here.’
‘He’s upstairs,’ said Cowell. ‘You can see him in a bit. Briefly, mind - he’s tired. But first, I wanted to have a little chat. Just you and me. And I wanted you to see this.’
Cowell switched on the TV, and a breaking news banner flashed across the bottom of the screen.
‘Australian Anarchist Rising Crushed!’
Cowell shook his head slowly. ‘It’s all rubbish. The rising hasn’t been crushed - it’s been years in the planning, and it’s been a success. And it’s been inspired by some very, very dangerous people.’
‘I like anarchists,’ pointed out Robbie. ‘I am one! Good luck to ‘em.’
Cowell snorted. ‘Yes, and most of them are probably as brainless as you, mate, but they’ve got thinkers among them. Men who possess a vision that you and your mates lack, and one of them is very dangerous to us. Ever heard of Jason Orange, Rob?’
Robbie wracked his brain. That name was vaguely familiar, but he just couldn’t place it.
‘Never mind,’ dismissed Cowell. ‘Point is that he’s dangerous. He knows Barlow - at least, he knew Barlow. And if those two get together, everything we’ve worked for could be threatened.’
‘Hold on, mate! I’ve not worked for anything apart from destroying this shitty government! I’d be happy to buy several pints for this Jason bloke - erm, just as soon as we make alcohol legal again!’
‘Maybe you can,’ shrugged Cowell. ‘The only important thing is that Barlow never finds out about him.’
Robbie scratched his head. He usually paid fairly little attention to Cowell’s machinations, just taking the weapons and snatching the few moments he was given with Mark, but this time the constant reference to Gary Barlow bothered him.
‘How do we know that Barlow doesn’t already know? Eh? Eh?’
‘Because he’d have done something about it, if he had. Barlow thinks that Orange is dead and he, himself, will die believing that. Tonight.’
‘I still don’t get why the fuck that matters?’
‘It doesn’t. Just make sure Barlow dies, and I’ll take care of Orange. You want that drink?’
Robbie shrugged. ‘I’d rather see Markie. Erm...why does Barlow have to die?’
‘I suggest you have this drink, Rob, and I’ll tell you all about it.’
Robbie sat down with a large glass of brandy, as Cowell started to tell the tale that he already knew snatches of, but had never thought about too deeply.
‘Six years ago,’ started Cowell. ‘Just before I left the Party to set up on my own, I was involved in an experiment: an experiment which was not an accident. Back in Brittanic City 3, we found a scientist who had mastered the theory and practice not only of wormhole but of quantum physics. He built a device that could look into a thousand possible futures - and we used it to find out that a group of young men were destined to shape the futures of our civilisation as we know it. You have to understand, though, that these futures were very different. In some of them, the world even now, in 2002, was completely different to the world we are living in. But, in many of those futures, the men who paved the way to the future were you...’
Robbie couldn’t contain a smug nod and grin.
Cowell’s grin, however, outdid even Robbie’s for smugness as he added: ‘...and, more importantly, me! That’s how I knew I had to get you on board. But, you see, we haven’t quite reached that future yet - and there were plenty of possible futures where something approximating the Mingay regime lived on, although not under Mingay. Instead, standing there all smug and pompous was...’
‘...Gary Barlow! I fucking knew it!’
‘You’re sometimes a lot less stupid than you look, Rob,’ laughed Cowell. He topped up Robbie’s glass. ‘Get it now? And that Orange fellow, he was no good, either. Dangerous man that, written a load of awful poetry about peace and passive resistance and love and, worst of all, wooden fucking boats...dangerous, subversive stuff. But regimes come down with a bang not with a whimper, right?’
‘Too right!’ laughed Rob, and downed his second glass. ‘Can I see Markie now?’
‘I don’t see why not.’ Simon smiled, pressed a button on a little switch box and said in a low voice. ‘Will somebody bring my wife to me, please?’
A few minutes later, Mark appeared in the doorway, shadowed by a large minder; but, for a moment, Robbie was oblivious to everything in the world apart from Mark. He was dressed in a tight white t-shirt and a pair of equally snug-fitting trousers; his glossy hair had been neatly styled and straightened and the outfit was finished perfectly by a thick black choker, snug against the pale skin of his throat, and a pair of matching black cuffs at his wrists. For a moment, Mark just looked at Cowell, his expression glazed and indifferent; and then he laid eyes on Rob, and his smile sparkled.
Cowell visibly leered at his wife, and started saying something to Robbie about ‘it’s a shame I can’t show him off like that in public’. Mark ignored him completely, and seconds later he was enfolded Robbie’s arms.
‘God, it’s good to see you,’ he breathed.
Robbie held him tightly, rubbing his cheek against Mark’s soft hair. After a few seconds, though, Cowell coughed impatiently and Mark drew away a little.
‘You okay?’ asked Mark, scrutinising Robbie closely. Robbie was grinning, but he was also visibly trembling; still holding Mark, he turned to Cowell, jutting his chin in the air defiantly.
‘I do what you want tonight,’ said Robbie. ‘Then I take Mark away with me.’
Cowell laughed, folding his arms. ‘No fucking way!’
Robbie shrugged. ‘Your loss, mate. I’m not going to kill Barlow for you, unless I get what I want for a change.’
‘Don’t be a fool, Rob, I’ve given you everything you wanted for the past six years...’
‘What did you say?’ Even as Cowell was talking, Mark pushed Robbie away suddenly. ‘Did you say Barlow? You did, didn’t you?’ Mark looked wildly at Robbie and then at Cowell, who had now shut up, thudding his palm to his forehead. ‘Do you mean Gary Barlow? Do you? Tell me!’
‘Well done, Rob,’ hissed Simon. ‘You’ve really put your foot in it, haven’t you?’
‘Are you talking about Gary Barlow?’ Mark was shouting now, thudding his fist against Robbie’s chest.
‘Yeah! Ow, fucking hell, Mark...yeah, it’s Gary Barlow, the guy you arrived here with, but he’s a fucking Pig and...’
Mark paused a second, his world whirling ever faster. When he started shouted again, he found he just couldn’t yell loudly enough. Cowell was closing in on him, but that was unimportant. He kept screaming. Six years he had kept quiet and just taken it all. Not anymore.
‘No!’ screamed Mark, lashing out even as Cowell tried to grab him from behind. ‘I’M NOT GOING TO LET YOU KILL GARY!’
Mark’s right hook impacted hard with Cowell’s jaw; Cowell staggered backwards, momentarily stunned; Robbie just stood and stared whilst Mark rounded on him, jabbing his finger accusingly.
‘You’ve got to fucking listen, Robbie! Gary is a good guy. You know that, deep down! You’ve got to help him!’
Robbie waved his arms defensively, and started saying ‘I never fucking met him’; he hated himself for upsetting Mark like this but, without any thinking time, he hadn’t a clue what else to do. When Cowell grabbed Mark suddenly by the wrist, yanked him around and backhanded him viciously across the cheek, however, everything became more straightforward.
Mark crumpled to the floor, apparently senseless. Robbie lunged at Cowell, grabbing his collar and began wrestling and grappling with him; they were rolling across the ground, kneeing and spitting at each other, when Cowell’s security men burst through the door.
.......................
Cowell lifted Mark onto the sofa while Robbie watched and swore, his wrists clamped in metal handcuffs.
‘You hurt him!’ yelled Robbie, undecided whether he should sob or take the gamble of trying to head-butt Cowell to death.
Cowell regarded the nasty, temporarily disfiguring red bruise across Mark’s left cheek angrily, although he’d worked out it was the cut above Mark’s left temple, sustained when he knocked him over, that had rendered him unconscious; there was a little trickle of blood, seeping from just above Mark’s hairline. He glared at Robbie.
‘This is all your fault. How many times have I told you never to mention Barlow in front of him?’
‘You never!’ protested Robbie, not entirely truthfully. He remembered now, of course, but Simon was always talking a lot of crap about what he should and should not do, and unless there was a direct ‘you better do this, or Mark dies’ sort of threat attached, he rarely paid attention.
Simon huffed crossly, slipped a cushion behind Mark’s head, and rose. ‘Look, you’d better get out of here before he wakes up or you’ll just make things worse. And, Rob?’
‘What?’
‘You hit me again, I will kill him.’
Robbie pulled a disdainful expression. It had almost become a hollow threat, but Robbie had never quite become brave enough to test it. As Simon unlocked the cuffs, Robbie found he still wasn’t quite brave enough - yeah, he could knock out Simon, maybe, and gather Mark up in his arms, but fighting his way out of the building with him would be tricky, to say the least.
Besides, Robbie had work to do.
‘Use your brain and kill Barlow for us,’ said Cowell, his voice a low whisper. ‘Do that - and I’ll let you have Mark. Not forever, but yours for a whole night. You get me?’
Robbie glared like a maniac, flexing his wrists, and hoped to hell this was the right decision because, like so often, he really was winging it now.
‘Yeah,’ he breathed. ‘I get you, mate. I blow up Parliament - Barlow dies. And I get to use your favourite fuck toy...’
His head throbbing like hell, Mark felt sick; in fact, whilst overhearing Robbie and Simon’s conversation, he realised he was going to be sick. He wanted to scream, but more in frustration than anything. He’d felt helpless a thousand times over the past few years, but never more so than at that moment.
He listened to Robbie swear and leave, the door slamming behind him; then he listened to Cowell’s heavy footsteps pad over, and sensed him lean down.
‘You heard that, didn’t you?’ said Cowell smoothly.
Mark was almost proud of his perfect timing, as he rolled over and was sick all over Simon’s very expensive suede shoes.
...................
Robbie passed Cowell’s private doctor on his way down the stairs towards the cellars of the palace, from where he would exit into the subterranean maze beneath the pavements of Brittanic City 1. The notion flashed through his mind of trying to get a message to Mark through him, just something like ‘Rob says he won’t’, but he didn’t quite know how to go about it. The man would probably look at him like he was mad, and then just tell Cowell. So he decided it was more important to let the doctor get to Mark quicker, and for him to get to ‘Hamster’.
And somehow break it to Richard that they weren’t going to blow up Parliament today, but that they were going to break into St. James palace and rescue ‘clone fucking angel boy’ instead.
Robbie pulled a face to himself. That was going to be a tricky one, although he could bribe Richard with the prospect of still having Cowell’s head on a pointy stick before the day was out - and possibly be telling the truth for once.
He was still worrying about this, when his route was blocked by one of Cowell’s ‘staff’.
‘You can’t go that way. One of Mingay’s underground patrols is due. You’ll have to go out the front door, across the park, and go down at the old tube station entrance by Parliament. They’ll be gone by that time.’
Rob grunted, but did what the bloke said, stomping out of the front door in such a way that nobody would have suspected he was the ‘most wanted’ man in the country, because he was just too obviously up to something. He didn’t even bother to pull the hood of his jacket up as he strolled across Mosley Park. Robbie was past caring; he actually found himself wanting to be recognised.
As it happened, he was recognised by a police officer in green combat fatigues, who was hurrying in the other direction - but, even then, things didn’t pan out quite as Robbie predicted.
‘Rob?’
Robbie did a double-take. Did he recognise this guy? There was something about him, but he couldn’t quite work it out.
‘Rob! Bloody hell, it is you. Look, I don’t think you remember me here, but we knew each other...somewhere else, and we met once before.’
Robbie just gawped at him for a second before summoning up a smug grin.
‘You’re talking shit, mate. You know my face because I’m a fucking megastar anarchist and I ought to shoot the shit out of you RIGHT NOW!’
But the policeman wasn’t that easily cowed - in fact, he didn’t seem even the slightest bit scared by the nation’s top anarchist, instead insisting. ‘Look, my names Howard. Howard Donald. And I’m a friend of Gary Barlow’s. And Mark Owen’s...yeah, you remember Mark, don’t you?’
‘’course I bloody do,’ snapped Robbie, before his brain caught up with him. ‘I were with him just five minutes ago!’
TBC...