Perfidious Albion

by Sam Byers

  But then, the deal approved, the decanting had begun, and even Hugo had to admit that things had become murky. He saw less of Wallace and Sterne, who had both been shunted on to other projects. Instead, he began working with Jones, who had been tasked with overseeing the clearance of the estate, and whose style was to put a considerably less friendly face on things. Even more problematic was the impact of the mounting controversy surrounding the enforced rehousing of the Larchwood tenants on the increasing complications inherent in Hugo’s carefully oversimplified politics. His message was clear: the ordinary white, working-class people of Edmundsbury had been forgotten, and what should have been rightfully theirs – jobs, housing, benefits, and the like – was now all going to immigrants and scroungers. This message had proved extremely popular, so popular, in fact, that once the decanting was under way, many of the residents saw in Hugo’s political rhetoric a near-prophetic ability. The maths of the situation, after all, seemed obvious. Immigration had increased hugely, and suddenly they were being asked to move out. Within the space of a few months, Hugo’s popularity soared. He had not, at that stage, even announced his intention to stand, but, such was the upswell of popular public opinion at a local level, he was able to spin the entire situation so that it appeared he’d be standing, somewhat reluctantly, because the people of Edmundsbury had asked him to; because, as he put it in one particularly emotive speech, they needed him to.

  In many ways, Hugo should have been completely stuck. He had, after all, agreed with Downton to ensure the ongoing success of a project he’d tacitly agreed with his core voters to oppose. But the powers of paranoia and oversimplification were, Hugo found, more pervasive than even he could have imagined. The more Downton leaned on tenants in the Larchwood, the more convinced the tenants became of their own victimisation, and the easier it was for Hugo to point the finger elsewhere, a phenomenon that explained the apparent anomaly in Edmundsbury’s opinion polls: Edmundsbury was home to fewer immigrants than almost anywhere else in the country, yet anti-immigration sentiment had never been higher.

  The endgame, in Hugo’s mind, was simple. Downton would successfully decant the estate and turn it into their new high-tech, digitally connected conceptual nightmare, and the people they displaced would be angrier than ever, and keener than ever to apportion blame, and Hugo would be right there to help them.

  Before all of this could play out, however, there was the small matter of the few remaining hold-outs, who were, especially now that a certain degree of attention had fallen on the estate, making life uncomfortable all round, meaning that Hugo, who really should have been concentrating on more pressing matters, had no choice but to tolerate the increasingly common presence of Jones, a man with the unerring ability to rub Hugo the wrong way.

  ‘Mr Bennington,’ said Jones, who slid into the room like it was his own personal talk-space and started in with his bank-manager delivery without so much as a hello, making Hugo miss all the more sharply the days when his business dealings with Downton had revolved around languorous lunches with Wallace and Sterne. ‘I understand you were keen to hear an update on progress?’

  Hugo had not, as it happened, been keen to hear an update on progress. Or, he’d been keen to hear one, but he hadn’t asked for one, leading him to conclude that Teddy had been up to his usual scheduling mischief.

  ‘Well, more just a reassurance that there has actually been some progress,’ he said bluntly, glossing over this slight area of confusion. His dealings with money men, Wallace and Sterne aside, tended to be somewhat gruff, largely because he had to maintain an air of irritability as a defensive cover for his ignorance.

  ‘I think it’s fair to say there has been a degree of progress,’ said Jones, ‘and that we anticipate completion according to deadline.’

  ‘How many people are left?’

  ‘A small and ever-reducing number,’ said Jones, ‘of which only two or three are proving particularly stubborn.’

  ‘And who are those two or three?’

  ‘Well, there’s a, how shall I put it, an unconventional, or perhaps alternative family who seem quite convinced they should be allowed to stay,’ said Jones, handing Hugo a piece of paper containing four names.

  ‘Three parents and a child?’ said Hugo, attempting to decipher what was in front of him. ‘Should one of those read grandparent?’

  ‘Like I say,’ said Jones. ‘An unconventional family.’

  ‘Who else?’

  ‘An older gentleman,’ said Jones, handing Hugo another piece of paper. ‘Particularly determined. And, if I might say so, distinctly disagreeable.’

  Hugo looked at the information. ‘Darkin,’ he said. ‘What sort of name is Darkin?’

  ‘He’s a great admirer of yours, actually,’ said Jones, either because he felt that the question about Darkin’s name was an unnecessary deviation, or because he’d read into Hugo’s question another question, which he felt his comment about Darkin being a supporter of Hugo’s went some way to answering.

  ‘Clearly a man of intelligence and taste,’ said Hugo.

  Jones looked at him blankly. ‘Perhaps you might like to go and meet him?’

  ‘And say what?’

  ‘You could discuss his options with him.’

  ‘And what are his options?’

  ‘Leave voluntarily or under duress.’

  Jones smiled.

  ‘You know,’ said Hugo, ‘I’m not entirely convinced it’s such a good idea for me to get directly involved.’

  ‘You’re concerned, perhaps, about losing his vote?’

  ‘Well, OK, yes, there’s that. But also, how’s it going to look if I go round there and lay out his distinctly limited options to him? Isn’t that going to look—’

  ‘Somewhat threatening?’

  ‘Somewhat threatening, yes.’

  ‘I suppose that very much depends on the manner in which his options are presented to him,’ said Jones.

  ‘And how do you propose I present them?’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure a political man like yourself doesn’t need advice from me about the uses of nuance,’ said Jones.

  ‘Well, like I say, it seems to me that this is a matter for Downton to handle directly. Putting the word about for you boys and protecting your interests in the right circles is one thing, but going down to the estate itself and—’

  ‘There is another matter,’ said Jones, who had a way of stopping tangents before they started.

  ‘Right. What is this other matter?’

  ‘Have you heard of Robert Townsend?’

  ‘Rings a bell,’ said Hugo.

  ‘He writes a blog for The Command Line.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Hugo, torn between demonstrating he knew what Jones was talking about and then having to explain why he hadn’t yet done anything about it, which risked looking ineffectual, or simply pretending he hadn’t known anything about it until now, which risked looking ill-informed.

  ‘He’s been blogging about the Larchwood.’

  ‘Mhmm.’

  ‘He seems to want to turn it into some sort of cause.’

  ‘Aha.’

  ‘I’m just making sure you’re aware.’

  ‘I am very much aware,’ said Hugo, who hadn’t, he knew, given a particularly good impression of being aware.

  ‘I’m sure it’s something Teddy can deal with,’ said Jones.

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Hugo, rankled at the idea there might be anything Teddy could deal with that Hugo couldn’t deal with himself.

  ‘Well,’ said Jones. ‘This has been helpful.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Hugo, who had no idea why this had been helpful. ‘So just to clarify, in terms of moving forward—’

  ‘Yes. Just let us know when you’ve been to the estate and we can plan from there.’

  ‘I just told you,’ said Hugo, ‘I don’t think it’s a good idea to—’

  ‘Perhaps you’d like me to clarify your options?’ said Jones, somehow managing to use the absolute m
inimum of facial muscles necessary to shape the words.

  ‘Don’t threaten me, Jones,’ said Hugo. ‘Because I can just as easily clarify your options, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘How about we both go away and look at our options,’ said Jones slowly, ‘and then get together sometime soon and talk them over?’

  ‘What will that achieve?’

  ‘Well,’ said Jones, ‘I think it will at least help to clarify who actually has options.’ He looked pointedly at Hugo, then stood up and gathered his things before extending his hand. ‘Pleasure to see you again, Mr Bennington.’

  He left as he’d arrived: with barely a concession to Hugo’s existence.

  If there had been more time, Hugo probably could have unpacked his own apparently increasing insignificance into a fully expanded panic attack but, perhaps thankfully, the moment the lift doors at the end of the hallway closed on Jones’s smug little face, Teddy was already darting out from Hugo’s office with an expression worryingly akin to the one he’d worn not half an hour previously when he’d been on the verge of soiling himself.

  ‘Teddy,’ said Hugo.

  ‘No time for pleasantries, big guy,’ said Teddy, holding up a hand. ‘We’ve got a situation.’

  ‘Oh Christ. What kind of situation?’

  ‘A Ken Henderson kind of situation.’

  ‘Oh fuck me. What now?’

  Ken Henderson was another prospective England Always MP with his eye on a seat in a small coastal town somewhere in Norfolk. Like many of the party’s MPs, he had no political or media experience but was incredibly excited about political and media exposure, and so had a tendency to say shatteringly stupid things at wildly inconvenient moments.

  Teddy slid an A4 printout across the table and waited while Hugo read it.

  ‘He said all of this on camera,’ said Hugo, gazing, head in hands, at the printout.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Teddy.

  ‘I mean, I want to be absolutely clear on this. I haven’t, you know, entered some sort of weird parallel dimension. I’m not having a fever dream. Ken Henderson said this, on television, in the actual real world in which we live.’

  ‘I can play you the video file if you like,’ said Teddy.

  ‘God no,’ said Hugo.

  He studied the transcript again in the hope it might magically appear less depressing, but it remained stubbornly unchanged, which meant that, much as Hugo might wish otherwise, the facts of the matter remained depressingly real. Early this morning, no doubt hungover, and no doubt over-excited at being interviewed, Ken Henderson had shambled onto the BBC news and, stumbling between two equally offensive and outmoded terms, somehow merged them in his mouth and uttered the word colouroid.

  ‘I mean, Jesus fucking Christ,’ said Hugo. ‘Colouroid? Is that even a word?’

  ‘Nah,’ said Teddy. ‘I’ve already checked. Although, like, maybe that’s a good thing?’

  ‘Why is that a good thing?’

  ‘Well, can it definitely be offensive if it’s not even a word?’

  Hugo thought about this. One of the unsettling effects of spending regular and sustained time in Teddy’s company was that the border between the profound and the insufferably moronic began to feel dangerously porous.

  ‘Alright,’ he said weakly. ‘Just give me the bullet points and tell me what to say.’

  *

  ‘Honestly,’ said Trina, tapping away at the laptop propped on her knees, ‘it’s really good. You just need to—’

  ‘You always say it’s good,’ said Kasia. ‘But look: you’re still changing it.’

  ‘I’m just …’ Trina hit the delete key. ‘There. It’s neater. See?’

  Kasia rested her chin on Trina’s shoulder and squinted at the laptop screen. She nodded, then hung her head over the plastic container of sushi in her lap.

  They were sitting outside The Arbor, blinking in the sun, Trina’s eyes not quite adjusting from screen-glare to sky-dazzle. Around them, the carefully sculpted and formed grounds of the facility unfolded with the kind of neat, modular order one would expect. Benches were arranged in little clusters, each with their own allotted tree. Other clusters contained chatting huddles of workers, but Trina and Kasia had this particular bench to themselves. Their daily lunches, the unspoken stratification they disrupted, had caused talk. Trina did what her colleagues called real work; Kasia was part of the service staff. The two strata, siloed in different quarters of the complex, rarely mixed.

  ‘What?’ said Trina, twisting from the laptop and spearing some of the sushi she’d balanced on the seat next to her.

  Kasia shook her head. ‘Just tired,’ she said.

  ‘Were you up all night on this?’

  ‘Every night. Then come to work. Then up all night working.’ Kasia rubbed her eyes with her thumb and index finger.

  Trina reached out and rubbed Kasia’s back.

  ‘I have so been there,’ she said. ‘It’s worth it.’

  Kasia turned her head sideways to catch Trina’s eye.

  ‘Really?’

  Trina sighed, leaned back on her hands so that the sun caught her face for a moment.

  ‘Fair question,’ she said.

  With Trina’s encouragement, Kasia was teaching herself code. She regularly brought out her laptop over lunch so that Trina could scroll through and make corrections. For the first few months, Kasia’s enthusiasm had been obvious. Recently, though, Trina had sensed a dwindling of Kasia’s inner resources. It was a feeling she knew well. Between work and study, she thought, or work and other work, always chasing the image of your imagined future, you could lose space for your present self entirely.

  ‘So I learn to code,’ said Kasia. ‘Then what? MT? Then … I don’t know. Learn something else? I’m not like you.’

  ‘Like me how?’

  ‘I won’t do something brilliant.’

  ‘OK, first of all, I didn’t do anything especially brilliant, and second of all, how do you know that?’

  Kasia shrugged again.

  ‘You’re picking it up really fast,’ said Trina, passing her the laptop.

  Kasia scrolled through the strings of code, a faint smile teasing at one corner of her mouth.

  ‘It gets like this,’ said Trina. ‘You’re exhausted. You’re doing the same thing over and over again. You think: why the fuck am I even doing this? Like, what even is the point? But it passes, you know?’

  ‘I know,’ said Kasia. ‘Just … I need a day off. Or a week off. Or a holiday. Or something.’

  ‘You know what kept me going?’ said Trina.

  ‘Speed?’

  ‘Besides speed.’

  ‘I think …’ Kasia thought about it. ‘I think you believe in yourself.’

  ‘That’s bullshit,’ said Trina, replaying the Teddy Handler video in her mind as she spoke. ‘All that fucking crap people come out with about believing in yourself and doing what you love and visualising and positivity and finding your bliss and all that shit. Fuck that. What kept me going was thinking about those arseholes in there.’ She pointed at The Arbor. ‘Because do you think they ever sat up at night asking themselves why they were doing this? No way. They’re all there because they just never questioned the fact that they should be there. And if they don’t have to question it, I don’t have to question it, and you don’t have to question it either. It’s not about thinking positive or motivating yourself, it’s just about never stopping to ask yourself these kinds of questions.’

  ‘OK,’ said Kasia. ‘Yeah. I see that. But still. What’s the difference? Now I carry their shit around for them; maybe if I do this next year, I carry their code around for them.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Trina. ‘Maybe. But at least you take, like, fractionally more of their money. You know how much money these fuckers have? You should be getting some of that money. More of that money. Like, as much of it as you can reasonably take.’

  Her voice had become louder and she had, without realising it, begun pointing at Kas
ia’s chest as she spoke, as if admonishing her.

  ‘I’m ranting,’ she said. ‘Sorry.’

  Kasia shook her head, gave Trina a look that said she knew what Trina was really talking about.

  Necessity, not ambition, had made Trina an MT. Some years ago, an ex-boyfriend by the name of Dustin had got slap happy. On the first occasion, she’d foolishly forgiven him. On the second occasion, she’d knocked out six of his teeth with a TV remote. Trina was not someone you could push around indefinitely. She’d left him crawling around the living-room floor, spitting blood, picking his incisors out of the sheepskin rug. Or at least, she’d thought that was where she left him. As it turned out, he’d had other ideas. He’d pressed charges, dragged her through the courts. It was her word against his, and given that he’d had the audacity to turn up to court in a wheelchair claiming nerve damage and post-traumatic stress disorder, his word had carried undue weight. She dodged an actual jail cell, but wound up with the next best thing: an electronic tag, a closely monitored curfew. Microtasking allowed her not only to work from home, but, fuelled by coffee, speed, Adderall, and whatever else was at hand, to study at the same time. Through days and nights that appeared endless, during which her entire sense of time distorted to the point where she simply slept and ate according to the rhythm of the tasks she needed to complete, Trina stretched her brain until she could calmly function with three windows open on her screen at once: the MT system, her coursework, and a third project, Beatrice, into which she had invested all her hopes for a new life.

  In many ways, that new life was now hers. In other ways, though, it was as out of reach as ever. She wasn’t using any of the coding skills she now possessed. Instead, she simply toyed with the parameters she’d created, manipulating the workforce from what was little more than a glorified personnel position. Worse, her future, now that it was here, was still forever curtailed by her past. For all their gushing about their disruptively meritocratic working practices, Green, as was explained to Trina by two eerily similar HR drones on the day of her induction, were not above basic arse-covering.