by Sam Byers
Here, stunned by the sudden and unexpected appearance of his own name, Darkin halted, retraced his steps. Bennington couldn’t, surely, be talking about him?
Darkin, Darkin read, lived on the Larchwood Estate, and had recently been the subject of a ridiculously popular article by the up to now infuriatingly PC ‘blogger’, Robert Townsend. Here, Bennington said, in the midst of all this creeping threat, was an ordinary man who was, like Bennington himself, unafraid to tell it like it was, to stand up, possibly at great risk to himself, and sound the alarm against the creeping danger of our increasingly ‘progressive’ society. It was inspiring, said Bennington, a lesson to all of us. And more importantly, it was demonstrably effective. Up until he met Darkin, Bennington pointed out, Robert Townsend was peddling the same old soap-box platitudes as everyone else, blithely ignoring the obvious threats to everything he claimed to hold dear. But one encounter with one ordinary man prepared to speak the uncomfortable yet undeniable truth of his existence had changed him, and now Townsend was beginning to see the limits and flaws in his own opinions – moving, Bennington said, towards an outlook of maturity and distinction on which Bennington wished to be the first to commend him. Was it possible to imagine, said Bennington, a more persuasive and timely reminder of the power of one man’s opinion than Darkin? In these frightening times, Bennington concluded, it was the Darkins of the world who needed to be heard. All of us, each and every one, had to search for the Darkin inside ourselves.
By the time Darkin reached this conclusion, which he had to read several times in order to confirm he was not hallucinating, his hands were shaking – a state not helped by the fact that at that moment, as if he were not already sufficiently on edge, the kitchen timer on his coffee table went off and caused a further spike of adrenaline. He put the newspaper down and fumbled for a cigarette. The cigarette lit, he leaned back into the enfolding familiarity of his sofa and tried to think.
His first response was fear. Everything he had read up to the moment he encountered his own name had contributed, in his mind, to the belief that danger was creeping in from every side and convening outside his door. There were hooligans in the town. Somewhere on the estate, a murderous black woman was whipping up some kind of race war. It was all, he thought, perilous enough, close enough, real enough, without suddenly seeing himself at the centre of it. What if the hooligans and the people who wanted to kill white men also read Bennington’s column and saw in it, as Bennington seemed to have intended, some kind of example? And what if, on seeing this example, they decided to come right to his door and make of him an example of a very different kind?
But beneath the surface-level fear and the initial, gut-level response, a deeper, warmer sensation was at work. Reading about himself, seeing his name in print, and, most importantly, seeing Bennington very publicly taking up his cause, Darkin felt in his chest the unexpected glow of a long-forgotten pride. Not for years, not since Flo died, had he felt important. He hadn’t, he thought now, sitting on his sofa, the breeze from his broken window gently stirring the stagnant atmosphere of his flat, even felt important to himself.
Hugo Bennington, the only politician Darkin had ever admired or believed in, was on his side. Bennington knew him, cared about him. He would, Darkin felt sure, when all of this reached whatever boiling point it was moving towards, protect him. That knowledge, that certainty of support and promise of attention, warmed him, and gave him something he had reconciled himself to never having: hope.
*
Hugo took a long haul on his cigarette and held the tar in his lungs for a length of time that was almost, but not quite, painful. Thanks to Teddy’s desperate inability to gauge the moments when Hugo needed to be alone, Hugo, in much the same way as he’d started sneaking out his own back door in the mornings, had been forced to get creative with his fag breaks. Nipping out into the car park no longer cut it. Instead, he had to wend his way down a back alley and loop round the corner of a neighbouring building. Teddy was not a man who understood the notion of breaks unless they fulfilled some sort of purely physiological purpose. As far as Teddy was concerned, all time had to be leveraged at all times.
Hugo had to admit, though, that after a lengthy period of being an undefinable presence in Hugo’s life, Teddy had undeniably come good with this tweet business. Hugo had had his doubts, of course. Much as he loathed the stranglehold of PC bullshit that prevented him from expressing his opinions in public, he still harboured a distinct discomfort with public opposition to people of the non-white persuasion. It could so easily go wrong. The moral high ground, on which people like Hugo had long been denied any sort of comfortable position, seemed always within reach to a woman like this Trina James person, who was, Hugo thought, not just a black but the worst kind of black: the angry kind. But that, Hugo reminded himself, was exactly why this woman needed to be taken on, indeed, taken down. Hugo wasn’t the sort of person who believed in segregation or ethnic cleansing or whatever it was Ronnie and his boys were going on about. Hugo believed in live and let live. Or at least, he honestly believed that was what he believed. What bothered him was when people like this Trina woman got it into their heads that somehow the rules didn’t apply to them and started getting in everyone’s faces with their anger. That was the point at which he felt the need to take some kind of stand.
He tossed his fag end on the ground and squared his shoulders. Inside, Jones was waiting. For once, Hugo felt not only prepared, but confident. The tide was turning. Things were slowly, but perceptibly, coming under his control.
‘Ah,’ said Teddy, leaping up as Hugo wandered into the conference room. Jones was already there, as glacially inscrutable as ever. Hugo wondered what Jones did to relax. Played the harpsichord and ate people’s brains, probably. He tried to get a read on Teddy’s slightly over-zealous welcome. Was he relieved that Hugo, who had deliberately held his arrival in abeyance so as to make Jones wait, was finally there, or had they been talking about something Hugo wasn’t supposed to hear?
‘Mr Bennington,’ said Jones with a thin smile, failing either to stand or extend his hand.
‘Don’t get up,’ said Hugo.
Teddy, who had stood up, now sat down.
‘We were just shooting the breeze, weren’t we, Jones?’
Jones said nothing. Hugo eased himself into a chair and opted also to say nothing. A silence unfolded that was faintly competitive.
‘What can we do you for?’ said Hugo finally, when it became clear that Jones was prepared to wait indefinitely if it meant holding onto whatever petty power was available.
‘A simple matter of reassurance,’ said Jones.
‘Fire away,’ said Hugo, affecting an air of genial warmth.
‘This … woman,’ said Jones.
‘Which woman?’ said Hugo.
‘The genocide woman,’ said Jones.
‘Ah yes.’
‘Is this a situation you have under control?’
‘Absolutely,’ said Hugo.
‘Because it seems to be generating rather a lot of attention,’ said Jones. ‘And I’m not sure I’m entirely comfortable with that.’
‘Well, we can’t have you uncomfortable, can we?’ said Hugo.
Jones opted not to answer this.
‘I have to be honest,’ said Hugo, ‘I’m rather surprised at your discomfort.’
‘How so?’
‘Well, given that we see this as basically the opportunity we’ve been waiting for …’
‘You see unprecedented national attention and what appears to be a brewing race war as an opportunity?’
‘Well, the race war has been brewing for a very long time,’ said Hugo. ‘Which has always been our point. And as for the attention, well, I don’t like to spew clichés but, you know, there’s no such thing as bad publicity.’
‘We don’t really see this as publicity,’ said Jones. ‘And we don’t really see this as a situation that requires publicity. If anything, we see this as a situation that would ben
efit from being resolved with a minimum of attention.’
‘I think the mistake you’re making is that you’re assuming your situation and our situation are somehow the same,’ said Hugo.
‘I think the mistake you’re making is that you’re forgetting just how dependent your situation is on our situation,’ said Jones.
‘Wow, smackdown, right?’ said Teddy.
‘Shut up, Teddy,’ said Hugo.
‘Noted,’ said Teddy.
‘Maybe I’m not being clear,’ said Jones. ‘When I say we’re uncomfortable, I mean that we’re … displeased.’
‘With what? With this woman?’
‘With this woman. With the way you’re handling this woman, which seems to be an exercise in fanning the very flames we’d like to see put out, and also with your words about a certain tenant, this Mr … Darkin.’
‘Ah yes, I was wondering when you’d get to that.’
‘The very tenant, I might remind you, with whom I asked for your assistance just the other day. Only, instead of assisting me, you now seem to have taken up his cause.’
‘Well, I do feel some responsibility to my supporters,’ said Hugo, unable to make the statement sound anything but profoundly sarcastic.
‘Exactly our concern,’ said Jones. ‘Perhaps, with this Mr Darkin character, we’ve reached the point at which your interests and the interests of Downton Homes diverge.’
‘It seems to me that the whole point of politics is to balance what appear on the surface to be divergent or opposing interests,’ said Hugo.
‘Like you have with this woman, you mean?’
‘No. In that situation, I think what’s needed is some good old-fashioned opposition.’
‘I don’t feel we’re any further forward here, Mr Bennington,’ said Jones.
‘Look,’ said Hugo. ‘You want these people out. I get that. I want them out too. But if you think that me being seen to side with you in terms of kicking people out is in any way good for anyone, then you’re obviously far more naive than I’d imagined. I’ve got an opportunity here for what is basically a win-win situation all round. So why don’t you let me work my side of the fence while you worry about working yours?’
Jones smiled.
‘Politics is admirably ideas driven,’ he said. ‘But business is very much results driven. As long as that’s understood—’
‘Oh, we’re very results driven,’ said Teddy. ‘I mean, if you want to see some graphs …’
‘I’m not talking about the kind of results you can plot on a graph. I’m talking about the kind of results you can literally build on.’
‘I think that’s understood,’ said Hugo. ‘But what you need to understand is that we’re still very much committed to achieving those results. It’s just that we plan to achieve them without completely abandoning the things we ourselves need to achieve.’
‘As long as those things continue to align,’ said Jones.
‘Let’s just bear in mind,’ said Hugo, ‘that much as you might like to throw your weight around with regards to offering or withdrawing your support for my campaign, which I assume is what you’re implying with all this vague talk of interests, your project is going to take a hell of a lot longer to complete than mine, and while you’re completing it you’re going to want someone who’s sympathetic to your cause in a position where they might actually be able to help you, so let’s stop pretending that my getting elected is solely of benefit to me.’
‘Of course,’ said Jones. ‘But let’s also not pretend that you’re the only one who can help.’
Hugo thought about this for as long as he could manage without giving the impression he’d been thrown by it.
‘Hang on,’ he said. ‘How many people are you backing?’
‘Like I said, Mr Bennington. We’re very much results driven.’
‘And I’ve just told you I am very close to getting you those results.’
‘Then I don’t see that there’s anything to worry about, is there?’
‘No,’ said Hugo, believing nothing of the sort.
*
Once Jones had slithered back to his lair, Hugo slumped in the cheap plastic office chair and ran his fingers idly across the Formica of the conference table. When Teddy came charging in, Hugo held up a hand.
‘Not now, Teddy,’ he said. And then, a little more plaintively, ‘Please.’
‘Whoa,’ said Teddy, backing up with his hands raised. ‘Mood crash.’
‘I’m powering down,’ said Hugo.
It was true, he thought, he was. The problem was that he was not powering down in the Teddy sense – cycling his energy, preparing himself – but in the drabber, more unwilling sense: struggling to extract a last drop of power from his own dwindling and finite charge.
Teddy slid into a seat opposite Hugo and drummed his fingers on the tabletop.
‘I’m going to power you right back up,’ he said.
‘Unless you’ve got a ready supply of new body parts, a replacement brain, a time machine, and an entirely new soul, Teddy, I’m afraid I don’t think that’s going to be possible,’ said Hugo.
‘The BBC want to do a profile.’
Teddy was positively aglow. Somewhere deep in Hugo’s engine, a set of crocodile clips were applied, a weak jump-start initiated.
‘Like, At Home With Hugo,’ said Teddy. ‘The full works.’
Teddy wrapped up his drumroll on the tabletop with a little flourish, fashioning his fingers into two cocked pistols, which he fired, slightly disconcertingly, at Hugo.
‘Who’s doing it?’ said Hugo.
‘That woman who always does them. What’s her name? Vivian.’
‘Vivian Ross.’
‘That’s her.’
‘Christ.’
‘What?’
‘I hate Vivian Ross. Everyone hates Vivian Ross. And you know what? She hates me too.’
‘She’s a challenge, I’ll give you that.’
‘She’ll make mincemeat out of me,’ said Hugo, sounding morose even to himself.
‘You know what I’m hearing here, Hugo?’
‘What?’
‘I’m hearing a lot of resistance. I’m hearing a lot of obstacles.’
Hugo sighed. He was hearing a lot of resistance and obstacles too. In addition to his long-standing taxonomy of personal fear, he thought, he now needed a catalogue of everything that was working against him. Pressure from without, a draining of the spirit from within.
‘Don’t you ever get tired, Teddy?’ he said. ‘I mean, I know you’re young and healthy and fuelled by weird liquid. But don’t you ever just think … fuck it?’
‘Listen to me, big guy, OK? You’re flagging. I get that. It’s noted. We’ll schedule in some impromptu downtime just as soon as this phase plays out. But you know the mistake like ninety-nine per cent of people make in this situation? They go downtime in the uptime. Because this is where it gets gritty, Hugo. This is where it quite frankly gets tough as fuck. Yeah, things are knotty. But things are always knotty right before you totally unknot them. You see what I’m saying?’
‘No.’
‘I’m saying: we’ve got a lot of balls in the air. Do you want to be the guy that lets them drop?’
‘Maybe they’re just dropping of their own free will, Teddy. Maybe neither I nor any other guy has any actual power to effect the dropping of the balls, because in the end it’s all just gravity. OK, but let’s name some of these balls. You’ve got the old bloke. Ball A. You’ve got Townsend banging on about the estate. Ball B. You’ve got this genocide woman. Ball C. You’ve got Jones. Ball D. And you’ve got these Griefer people, who right now aren’t even a ball – they’re more like a strong wind affecting the trajectory of the balls. OK? Now. Into this admittedly ball-rich and high-winded scenario, we’ve got Vivian whatshername. We’ve got this BBC profile. And what I’m saying is that the way things are at the moment, this isn’t about actually catching any of the balls. If anything, catching one of these b
alls and being left standing there holding it would be no different to dropping one. What this is about, Hugo, is keeping all the balls in the air, keeping them moving, faster and faster, so that all people can see are the balls.’
‘You’re saying—’
‘I’m saying, everyone else has to catch at least one of these balls.’
‘Whereas I—’
‘Just keep throwing them around. I mean, shit, while we’re at it, let’s throw a few more in there. Right?’
Hugo nodded. ‘Everything’s in play,’ he said. ‘It just needs agitating.’
‘Right. Stirring up.’
‘All I need to do,’ said Hugo, ‘is go on there and just—’
‘Show people the balls. Dazzle them with the balls.’
‘Like, look at this situation.’
‘Look at this chaos.’
‘Look at what we’re having to deal with here.’
‘Like, for you, the situation is the solution. The game is the endgame.’
‘I’m a free agent.’
‘You’re pure chaos, big guy.’
‘But I’m also the calm inside the storm.’
‘Exactly. You know how I see this?’
‘How do you see this, Teddy?’
‘I see it like, you’re at home, but you’re not even that relaxed. You’re maybe in your kitchen, grabbing a quick cup of coffee because you’ve got, like, literally half an hour to yourself right now.’
‘Like, this is what passes for relaxing in the crazy, hectic life of on-the-go power-monger Hugo Bennington.’
‘A cup of instant coffee in a chair that isn’t even that comfortable.’
‘Saying something like, I’ve got half an hour.’
‘OK. Setting: nailed. Vibe: nailed. Let’s talk content.’
Hugo was sitting forward now, leaning across the conference table, entirely drawn in.
‘Obviously,’ said Teddy, ‘this is very much focused on the genocide. You need to be clear: this is your issue.’
‘For me, this is a defining issue. It goes to the heart of—’
‘Yes, say heart. It ups your empathy rating.’