Ardent Justice

by Research Professor Of Social Policy Peter Taylor-Gooby

  ‘Only residents allowed in. That’s class for you.’

  Ade rang the bell and a spare young man in a spotless nurse’s uniform opened it. He took them in in one glance and stood there barring the entrance. ‘Can I help you?’

  Ade handed him the letter.

  ‘Ah, Ms Corey. Do come in. And this is?’

  ‘A friend,’ said Ade.

  The young man hesitated, then turned and led them into a hallway, past an inlaid Louis Quatorze table and up a staircase with a polished mahogany banister. He ushered them through swing doors and into a modern annex at the rear of the building. Ade caught a whiff of hospital disinfectant. She heard the sound of weeping and saw at the far end of the corridor another nurse helping a very young woman in a hospital smock through another set of doors.

  The young man put out an arm to direct them onto another corridor. He halted and turned to them. ‘Our client is very weak. You mustn’t tire him. He requested that I give you some background information.’

  He closed his eyes and opened them. Ade saw they were hazel brown.

  ‘An unfortunate case. He collapsed at a business lunch two days ago. We brought him in and our diagnosis is, I’m very sorry to say, pancreatic degeneration. Advanced. There is little anyone can do at this stage. He wished you to know that. We are a discreet institution. You must understand that you enter on condition that none of this is ever discussed with anyone outside these walls.’

  Ade nodded.

  ‘Please sign this document.’ He turned to Paul. ‘And you. Remember, we have your details and will not hesitate to take action if the agreement is breached in any way whatsoever.’

  He watched them sign, then carefully folded the papers and slid them into a long envelope.

  ‘A short visit. You mustn’t tire him.’ He tapped on the door next to him, listened and opened it, standing back for them to enter. ‘Please go in.’

  Ade’s first impression was of flowers, pink, yellow, red, white, in tubs and vases, the rich mingled scent everywhere in the sunlit room. The image of her mother on the trolley in the hospital corridor under the fluorescent light flashed across her mind. She looked at the figure on the bed, an old man, his cheeks sunken, his thin grey hair carefully combed back.

  ‘You came,’ he said in a thin voice. ‘You…’

  He paused as if it was an effort to speak. His hands lay on the white linen bedsheet. There was a drip inserted in the back of his left wrist. Wires ran towards him from a machine by the bed and disappeared under the blankets.

  Ade stared at him.

  ‘Mr Webster…’

  She heard Paul mutter ‘Streuth!’ behind her.

  Webster was speaking again, more strongly. ‘Yes, didn’t expect to see me like this. I suppose the young man explained.’ He paused again and his eyes glittered at her.

  Ade thought of the reasons why she hated him. ‘I’m sorry to see you like this.’

  ‘Doubt it.’

  Some of the old arrogance was back in his face. It wasn’t the cheating, it wasn’t even the sexism, it was his unassailable self-assurance, the absolute confidence that he could do what he liked with money, with the law, with her body, and no-one could ever touch him. That was what she hated most about him, the certainty of power.

  ‘I should go. You’ll want to spend time with your family.’

  ‘Hardly. At least you’re not stupid.’

  The fire went out of his eyes and he lay back on the pillow.

  ‘Listen. You live once and you’re dead a long time. You don’t know that yet, not really. You’re young.’

  He paused again. She heard the breath wheezing in his throat.

  ‘I want something.’

  Ade felt Paul’s hand in hers. She held it, and thought how smooth his skin was, how alive.

  ‘You can ask.’

  ‘I want to give you my money.’

  Paul gave a low whistle.

  ‘But…why?’ she said.

  ‘No one else I’m going to give it to.’

  The figure on the bed seemed to contract. He started coughing, a dry retching cough. Ade released Paul’s hand, took a tissue from the box on the bedside table and wiped it across Webster’s lips.

  ‘Damn flowers. Too many of them. They send you flowers, they never come and see you.’ He lay there, looking up at her, gathering his strength. ‘Just one condition. You build flats, lots of them. You call them the Webster Foundation. I want my name on them.’ He pulled himself up on the pillows. ‘I want a statue, I want my name carved in stone with a Latin inscription, I want the minister opening it, I want my name in all the papers, I want everyone to know.’

  He coughed again.

  ‘Let that damn bitch try to get her hands on the money then.’

  He fell back and closed his eyes and lay without moving. Ade thought of how he looked there on the bed, shrunken, an old man, and of the face in the lift looming over her, reflected endlessly in the mirrors, of the bulk of him trapping her, his hands on her body, the roll of fat at his neck pressing against her so she could hardly breathe.

  ‘I meant, why me? Ms Devi can set up a Foundation any day.’

  The mouth twitched. She realised he was grinning at her. ‘You and me. Unfinished business. Settle accounts.’

  That was all it was about. The whole thing. Power. Showing you could make someone who hated you do what you want.

  The effort of talking seemed to have exhausted Webster. He lay there without moving, his eyes closed. She hated him.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘Not with your name on. There’s other ways to get money.’

  ‘Ade …’ Paul was gripping her hand so tight it hurt.

  ‘No. Webster the great philanthropist. I can’t be part of that, not after what he did. Let’s go.’

  Webster’s eyes were open, gazing at her. He licked at his lips. ‘That’s it, then … a dying man’s request. I can always give it to Brasenose.’

  She stood up. Bones, nothing but bones lying there in the bed and the glint of the eyes like cleft flint.

  ‘Don’t go,’ he said. ‘Sit down.’ He coughed. ‘I want to talk to you. He can go out.’

  The anger blazed up in her. The runt can clear up.

  ‘We’re going. You want the Webster Foundation? You can do it without me. I can’t pretend you didn’t do what you did. I can’t.’

  She shoved at the door and stepped through, Paul close behind her, still talking to her, his voice urgent, but she couldn’t catch the words. She didn’t look back.

  They pushed past the slim young man and through the double doors, Paul half-running to stay beside her, his hand curled round hers, all the way down the stairs and onto the street. She halted and swung round to face him. He rubbed at his cheek.

  ‘You’re a tough lady,’ he said. ‘You ever think you’re too tough?’

  36

  Ade glanced down the empty street to Cavendish Square, a hundred yards away. Darkness had fallen and the rush hour was in full swing. A chill wind blew behind them. She put her arm round Paul, and felt him shiver. Webster, the bastard. He wanted to be there, in her head for ever, for ever telling her she’d done what he wanted, because he wanted her to.

  ‘Christ, you’re cold. We’ll get you a decent coat. Christmas present, my treat, Oxford Street. Beats me why you’ve never got one before.’

  Paul looked at her with his dark eyes and suddenly she didn’t know what he was thinking. After a few moments he said ‘That’s easy. Reminds me.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  She was rubbing at his hand. She didn’t seem able to warm him. ‘No fancy coat. Reminds me of what it’s like to be on the street. You don’t understand.’

  ‘Maybe I don’t. I’ve never been homeless. But I’ve seen people, I’v
e felt sorry for them, I’ve given them money. I’ve fought all my life to get the taxes to pay for a proper welfare state.’

  ‘Them. Given them money.’ His free hand was pulling at a lock of his hair. ‘Them. That’s the worst thing. On the street you’re not a person, you’re them. No-one looks at you, when someone talks to you like you’re human it’s a real event. There’s a barrier between you and normal people and there you are, shut off, you’re not part of the human race, unless they chuck you fifty pee. Like a monkey in the zoo. You’re never safe, you never have a place that’s your own, where you can be safe.’

  She let go his hand.

  ‘That’s like me and Webster’s world. Just a bit. You can never touch them; they wouldn’t give the shit off their shoes for you.’

  They were walking south, towards the square. Paul hunched his shoulders against the wind, his hands in his pockets.

  ‘So that’s why I don’t have a coat. Makes me feel closer to the street. In the cold, on the outside.’

  ‘Yeah. You’re right, I didn’t understand.’

  Paul stopped and turned to face her. ‘That bastard. He offered you enough cash to do something real. Millions. Tens of millions. Get people off the streets, in their own place, even if it’s just overnight. I don’t care what it cost you. You should’ve taken it.’

  ‘You’re shaking with cold. We’ve got to get you somewhere warm.’

  ‘Listen to me. I could take you places you wouldn’t believe existed. In this city, less than a mile from here. You go along under the bridges at the right time, you can see the security guards with fire hoses cleaning out the sleepers. Washing you out, like you’re filth. Soaking you. They think it’s a game. They let you get a few yards, dragging your sleeping bag, then they knock you off your feet again. Try to get warm after that.’

  His eyes glinted with passion.

  ‘I could take you round the night shelters when they’re full and they’ve made the selection – selection, that’s the word for it – and they shut the doors and there’s the ones left outside. And anywhere warm, the police move you on, ‘cos no-one wants you if you haven’t got money. And you move on, and you move on and that’s it. Winter, it gets bloody cold, not like it is now, real cold. When you breathe, you feel the ache in your teeth.’

  He paused.

  ‘I could take you round with the soup kitchens and I could take you into the shadows under the flyovers, in the parks, at the back of the demolition sites. I could show you the ones that won’t come out, even for free food when they haven’t eaten all day. The one’s who’ve found a place that can be theirs for the night, where they think they can be safe for a few hours, and would rather starve than see someone else take it.

  You should’ve let him give you the money. A statue. His name carved on it. What does it matter? Get the graffiti artists onto it.’

  ‘Maybe you don’t understand what he did,’ she said. ‘He treated me as a thing. He made me hate him so much I wanted to kill him. That’s what he did. You want me to accept that, to say, “Hey, didn’t like it at the time, but it was all worth it?”’

  They stood there for what seemed a long time. A long black limousine swept noiselessly past them and away toward the lights of Oxford Street.

  ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said all that. It’s just… being able to get Johnno and Mariska and Ilah and Nadia and even Casey and all the rest of them into proper flats for once in their lives. It’s my dream.’

  Ade put both her arms round him.

  ‘I can’t get you warm. I wish I could get you warm.’

  ‘I’ll be all right.’

  ‘Come on. We’re going back. You wait outside.’

  37

  Ade pushed open the door and the scent of the flowers hit her immediately, too sweet, too rich. He seemed to be asleep, his hands on the blankets. She gazed at the man on the bed. She understood virtually nothing about him. Power: making other people do what you want even when they hate you. To use them as things. Even when you’re dead. She gripped the pen in her pocket.

  ‘You’re back,’ he said, without opening his eyes.

  She wouldn’t speak immediately. She’d take a minute. She didn’t have to say it right away: It’s OK. It doesn’t really matter what you did, not compared with the money you made. I’ve changed my mind; we’ll take your money. We’ll cast the statue in bronze, best quality. It’ll last a thousand years, longer than the buildings. We’ll do anything. We’ll get the Archbishop to open it. The Queen, the Prime Minister. You were right all your life. Money’s the only thing that counts. Everyone’s for sale and that includes me.

  She could wait a little longer. She watched him lying there with his eyes closed, as if gathering all his strength. He coughed weakly and the cough turned into a sigh.

  It was a thing that had to be done.

  ‘I’m back,’ she said. ‘We’ve talked it over. We would like to accept the money. With gratitude.’

  The eyes flickered open. ‘And the conditions?’

  ‘We accept all the conditions. There’s just one thing. Paul is to be chief executive of the Foundation.’

  ‘That idiot? What do you want him to run it for?’

  There was a creaking, grating noise. The eyes glittered at her and the mouth twitched. Ade realised that Webster was laughing. The noise stopped and he sucked in a breath. The lips moved again: ‘No. Not paying him. Not with my money.’

  ‘So you don’t negotiate?’

  ‘Only to win.’

  Ade rose to her feet. He seemed so small, lying there on the bed. Maybe all you had to do was pull out one of the tubes that went into the machine, fiddle a bit with the dials, turn off the drip… He was going to be dead a very long time and he wanted them, all of them, to remember him, to remember his money. She stroked the tips of her fingers along the pen in her pocket. She remembered his face reflected endlessly in the lift, the stink of whisky on him as he loomed over her. She remembered the pen sliding into his flesh, so smoothly it seemed to need no effort at all. She thought of the homeless people huddled on the pavement in Fish Street, and Paul running towards her, shouting out ‘Come on!’

  She thought of Denny and her half-bottle of sweet sherry. She thought of Nadia frowning with concentration as she drew the shard of glass across her palm. She thought of Marcus Robbins spinning round when she grabbed at his shoulder. She thought of Gemma and Amy and Amy’s thank-you note. Everything seemed so far away, as if she was looking at it through the wrong end of a telescope. Who the hell cared?

  She remembered Morwen, her face against the security glass in Bronzefield.

  ‘OK, Mr Webster. Whatever you say.’

  There was silence in the room.

  This is for you, Morwen. They can call it the Webster Foundation in the paperwork but I’m going to make damn sure your name’s right across the front of it. So people have something to remember you by.

  The scent of the flowers hung over everything. Her fingers were wrapped tightly round the pen. He opened his mouth again and spoke, his voice so faint she could hardly hear the words: ‘Sita’ll draw up the papers. Now go. And I don’t want you at my funeral.’

  She didn’t look back until she’d got the door open. The figure on the bed lay there, as if dead. She pushed the door to. Paul stood very close to her.

  ‘What happened in there?’ he said. ‘You look different. You sure you’re OK?’

  ‘Tell you later. I’m going to get you a coat. You don’t have to wear it.’

  She held onto his hand, so soft and warm and vital in hers, and the young man in the nurse’s uniform escorted them out of the building.

  Background Note

  Ardent Justice is a fantasy. Like all fairy tales it rests on truth. Tax evasion is not conducted as described here, but both tax avoidance a
nd tax fraud are real issues and highly damaging. Estimates of the scale of the problem range from the official HMRC figure of £34bn (2015) to £150bn. The City of London is not as overtly sexist as portrayed, but gender equality in pay, promotion and prospects is still a long way off. Ministers do not conspire directly with business (so far as I know) but the amounts of tax foregone by government in recent high-profile settlements are striking.

  For background on tax-dodging Nick Shaxson’s Treasure Islands and Tony Norfield’s The City: London and the Global Power of Finance are useful. Joris Luyendijk’s Swimming with Sharks casts light on the world of bankers. For sexism and City culture see The Fawcett Society’s Sexism and the City: the Manifesto, or the detailed Financial Times investigation in the edition for 16 June 2015.

  David Kynaston’s City of London: The History gives an overview of how the City of London developed. Finally Richard Murphy’s The Joy of Tax considers how a simple, fair and politically acceptable tax system might be implemented, something that would have saved Ade and Paul a great deal of pain

  About the Author

  I’m Professor of Social Policy at the University of Kent. I enjoy hill-walking, riding my bike, holidays and looking after my grandchild (not in that order). I became interested in social policy issues after working on adventure playgrounds, teaching, claiming benefits and working in a social security office in Newcastle. I’ve worked in the UK, most European countries, Canada, the US, China, Korea and Japan, Australia and South Africa.

  My work shows how globalised market capitalism generates inequalities between haves and have-nots and promotes a corrosive individualism that stunts our capacity for empathy, charity and love. People live for themselves and their families and vote for more privatisation and less redistribution and against a humane welfare state.

  I believe that social science has many strengths in helping us understand societies in the aggregate, but often lacks an imaginative grasp of why people do what they do. We must turn to novels to gain insight into the emotions and passions that drive people’s behaviour as individuals. This is what I aim for in my writing.