by Sam Byers
‘I’m seeing optimum disruption here, big guy,’ said Teddy, strolling round the car to join Hugo. ‘Some damage, some chaos, no actual body bags.’
‘Let’s not even think about body bags, OK, Teddy?’
‘Mr Bennington,’ said an enthusiastic young journalist trotting up to the car as Hugo stepped out. ‘In what capacity are you—’
‘I’m here as a concerned citizen,’ said Hugo. ‘That’s first and foremost. I’m also here as someone who cares about this constituency and cares about the people who live in it. I fully expect to be briefed by the police, at which point I will comment, but as it is—’
‘Mr Bennington, what do you say to people who—’
‘Like I said, I’m anticipating a briefing by the police. Any comment before that time would be premature.’
‘… who accuse you of manipulating the situation—’
‘No more questions, please,’ said Teddy, extending an arm in front of the journo. ‘We’ll have more for you when we’ve been briefed.’
Teddy jogged on ahead to prime the police. Playing for time, Hugo slowed his pace and fell back on a tried and trusted tactic: the slow walk while he took it all in. He raised his head as if scenting the air, looked slowly from left to right as if absorbing every detail. He tried, through his facial expressions, to attach the suggestion of an appropriate emotional response according to whatever he appeared to be looking at: dignified respect when his gaze wandered across the police vans; a moved and hopeful gratitude as he met the gaze of some of the self-proclaimed Darkinists; and then a kind of stoic anger mixed with a gentle shake of the head to indicate pity when he took in the small group of anti-fascist protesters. The Submit group he passed over without visible response. He had not yet decided what he felt about them, or what he was going to say, if anything, about their cause, and so, for the time being at least, they were effectively not there.
‘Fascist!’ shouted some oik from amidst the protesters. The outburst seemed to enliven the hitherto slightly sorry-for-themselves group and they started up with a chant – Oh! No! We won’t go! Why don’t you go, Hugo? – which at least, Hugo thought, had the benefit of not being entirely predicated, as these chants tended to be, on either his stupidity or his physical resemblance to maligned fauna.
He felt profoundly uncomfortable. This was the grubby, undignified side of politics. To Hugo, politics was television, it was speeches, it was columns in sympathetic organs. Not slinking uneasily past a bestial, heckling throng. But through his disgust, his resentment, his awkward and shameful sense of inadequacy, even Hugo knew that to betray his revulsion was to telegraph his weakness. The more uncomfortable he felt, the more dismissive he had to appear. The more he faltered, the thicker the mask of disdain he was forced to paste across his straining face.
He found Teddy leaning a little too casually against the side of the police van and chatting amiably to an officer.
‘Hey, big guy,’ said Teddy, still irritatingly at ease. ‘This is Sergeant Gates.’
‘Pleasure,’ said Hugo, extending his hand. ‘Are you in charge?’
‘I’m the senior officer, yes.’
‘Well, first of all, please accept my thanks and admiration for responding so quickly and controlling the situation so rapidly. You’ll be charging this lot, I assume?’ Hugo jerked his head with stage-managed disgust towards the anti-fascists.
‘What with?’
‘I don’t know, breaching the peace? Resisting arrest?’
‘They were never arrested.’
‘Why weren’t they arrested?’
‘They hadn’t done anything wrong.’
‘You’re telling me that you’ve got two police cars and an ambulance here because nobody did anything wrong?’
‘I didn’t say nobody did anything wrong. Looks like a couple of those Brute Force boys assaulted someone. Plus a flat has been broken into.’
‘Whose flat?’
‘The Twitter woman.’
‘I see.’
‘We’ve got the Brute Force boys in the back of the van. Meanwhile, that lot over there’ – he gestured towards the Submit mob – ‘helped with the flat break-in, but we can’t narrow it down to specific suspects, so we’ll probably have to let that go and just take the Brute Force blokes.’
‘Right,’ said Hugo, who wasn’t entirely sure any of that would be quotable to news sources. ‘Any news of a tenant by the name of Darkin?’
‘He’s fine. He’d shut himself in the bathroom for safety, so couldn’t be much help as a witness, but he hasn’t been hurt.’
‘Shut himself in the bathroom?’
‘Says he heard the commotion break out and decided to make himself safe. Seems pretty terrified, poor chap.’
‘So he actually didn’t see anything at all?’
‘No. God knows what the poor old boy thinks happened. He’s pretty shaken up.’
‘As in, he literally has no idea?’
‘I don’t think so.’
Hugo considered this.
‘I think I’ll go and pay him a visit, if that’s alright.’
The Sergeant shrugged. ‘Nothing to do with us.’
‘Thank you, Sergeant,’ said Hugo, turning away and motioning for Teddy to follow while he walked towards the estate’s central square.
*
Darkin’s first act after leaving his bathroom was to light a cigarette. In his haste, he’d locked himself in there without taking his fags with him. As soon as he heard the police shouting through his broken window, he’d shot the bolt on the bathroom door, brought himself awkwardly and painfully to a standing position, and shuffled back through to the lounge, where he’d collapsed into the familiar and reassuring comfort of his sofa and lit up.
Now he was sipping a cup of tea kindly prepared for him by the bobby, contemplating all the sources and subjects of his terror. How long, he wondered, before the mob came back? Suddenly, Downton, for so long the thing he’d feared and loathed beyond all else, seemed the lesser of available evils.
The police officer popped his head round the open door.
‘Someone here to see you, if you’re up to it.’
‘Who?’ said Darkin, his fears rearing up, coalescing into a single sensation.
‘Hugo Bennington. You know him?’
‘From the paper?’
‘That’s him. Says he’d like to personally make sure you’re OK, if that’s alright with you?’
Darkin nodded, his anxiety reshaping itself into relief, and then, when the reality of the moment caught up to him, an awkward nervousness. He’d never met anyone well known before.
The police officer stepped aside. Standing behind him, right there on Darkin’s own doorstep, was Hugo Bennington. He was slightly smaller than Darkin had imagined him, less intimidating than he managed to appear in his pictures and columns.
‘Well, you must be the famous Mr Darkin,’ Bennington said, crossing the room. ‘What an honour. I’m Hugo Bennington. Don’t get up.’
Bennington turned and took in the flat. His lip curled, his nostrils briefly flared. He swallowed once, hard, then mustered an uncertain smile.
Darkin looked at the floor for a moment, ashamed.
‘It’s usually tidier,’ he said. ‘And the water’s been out.’
‘Oh, you should see my place,’ said Bennington. ‘You live alone?’
Darkin nodded, pointed towards the sofa so that Bennington could sit down.
‘Wife’s gone,’ he said.
‘As in dead?’ said Bennington.
‘They took her away,’ said Darkin. ‘Then she died.’
‘Mine’s gone but still alive, sadly,’ said Bennington, giving Darkin an awkward wink.
He wandered across the lounge towards the sofa, making a point, Darkin thought, of not studying the coffee table too closely and then, once he was lowering himself onto the sofa, not allowing too much of his body to touch the cushions.
‘A smoker, I see,’ said Bennington.
‘Don’t see the point in giving up now,’ said Darkin.
‘I’ve never seen the point,’ said Bennington, taking a packet from the pocket of his suit jacket, lighting up and inhaling deeply. ‘Got to go of something, right?’
It was strange, Darkin thought, locating his still-burning cigarette in the ashtray and returning it to his lips for a long, stabilising haul, seeing a man he’d always imagined as being somehow different or distinct behaving in such familiar ways. He tried to imagine any other politician coming round, chatting and smoking.
Bennington was looking around him, his features now under control, his expression harder to read.
‘Been here long?’ he said.
‘Since they built it.’
‘Really?’ Bennington shook his head. ‘Don’t meet many like you any more.’
‘Like me?’
‘People move around a lot more now, don’t they? They don’t stay in the same place.’
‘I thought about moving,’ said Darkin. ‘Me and Flo did anyway. But then when it was just me I didn’t see the point.’
‘Flo’s your wife? I mean, was.’
Darkin nodded.
‘You must have a lot of memories,’ said Bennington.
‘Wish I had fewer,’ said Darkin. ‘You want my advice? When you get to my age, make sure you go gaga. Or better yet: don’t get to my age.’
Bennington nodded.
‘No kids?’ he said.
Darkin shook his head.
‘Me neither,’ said Bennington. ‘A blessing, as far as I’m concerned.’
‘Never liked them,’ said Darkin. ‘Flo was more keen, but … it didn’t happen.’
‘Last thing I need in my life is more people to hate me,’ said Bennington. He nodded towards Darkin’s window. ‘The mob do that?’
‘Nah. It was like that already. Been meaning to get it fixed, but—’
‘In your own time or not at all, right?’
Darkin smiled. ‘I’m a stubborn fucker,’ he said.
‘You must be,’ said Bennington. ‘Not many people have been able to hold on here. Must have really dug your heels in.’
‘I don’t like being pushed around.’
‘Me neither,’ said Bennington. ‘Gets tiring after a while, though, no?’
Darkin thought about getting himself out of bed tomorrow, pulling himself upright, possibly falling, trying again. He thought about Geoff, wondering if he’d ever be back, picturing the supplies in the kitchen dwindling to nothing in Geoff’s absence. Then he thought about the mob: if and when they’d be back, whether Downton would beat them to the punch. How many days after tomorrow, he thought, would he still be wondering all the same things?
‘Gets you down after a bit,’ he said.
‘Makes me sick,’ said Bennington. ‘People like you, the way you’re treated.’
‘Wait until you’re someone like me yourself,’ said Darkin. ‘It’ll make you even sicker.’
Bennington shook his head. ‘A man like you,’ he said, ‘driven out of your home.’
Darkin frowned. ‘I’m still here.’
‘Are you?’ said Bennington.
Darkin wasn’t sure what he was supposed to say to this.
‘I mean, don’t get me wrong,’ said Bennington. ‘I hate it. I hate these bastards. Coming round here, making old men afraid, forcing you out. I mean it. I want you to know how angry I am.’
‘But they’ve gone,’ said Darkin, a little weakly, barely believing it himself.
‘Gone?’ said Bennington. ‘They’re still down there, mate, chanting away. The police have got them cordoned off but how long’s that going to last? I mean, OK, they’re behaving themselves now, but you think they’ll keep that up when the police are gone? When there’s no-one else to stop them? Those two chaps from earlier were literally the only people on your side, and the police have taken them away.’
‘I won’t bother anyone though,’ said Darkin. ‘I’m not in their way.’
‘Oh, but you are,’ said Bennington. ‘We all are.’
Darkin thought about this. It was something he’d always known, but only in an incidental way. Maybe he’d always just thought he’d be gone before they got to him.
‘I mean, I wish I could just snap my fingers and reverse everything,’ said Bennington. ‘But we’ve got to keep you safe, chap.’
‘But Downton …’ Darkin began.
‘Never mind Downton,’ said Hugo. ‘What can they do except work within the ridiculous system we already have? It’s not their fault what’s happening to housing. It’s not their fault we’re running out of space. If anything, they’re trying to do something about it. And I tell you, they’ve been very helpful in this situation.’
Darkin was thinking about Jones: the walking stick placed just out of reach, the thinly veiled threats.
‘Helpful?’ he said.
‘Well, ordinarily, getting you out of here would take months of bureaucracy. You know what these people are like. But I had a chat with them as soon as I heard what was happening. I said: look, this guy’s vulnerable. He’s unsafe. He’s been targeted by a radical faction, by militants. I said: we need to do something to help this chap or it’s going to be on all of our consciences. Anyway, I must have touched a nerve, because you know what? They agreed. They’ve found you a place already. A safe place. One of theirs. And they said you can do a straight swap. Because you own this place, don’t you? So rather than having to wait for the sale to go through while you sit here with a broken window and no water and, you know, a whole horde of thugs outside, you can just move into this new place and sort everything out afterwards.’
‘Always just figured I’d die here,’ said Darkin.
‘I understand that,’ said Bennington. ‘And there’s probably a part of you that thinks: what difference does it make if I die of natural causes or if some, excuse my language, but some fucking radical gets in here and kills me? And you know what? Man to man, me to you, I’d agree with you. But you know what else I think? Why give the bastards the satisfaction? Why let them win? You could be tucked up in a lovely, secure place, with other people like you, comfortable, warm, all of that. Last laugh’s all yours, right?’
Darkin managed a smile.
‘Look,’ Bennington said after a suitable pause, ‘I’ve got to dash, sadly. No rest for the wicked, eh? But someone from Downton will be round very soon and they’ll talk you through the whole move. I’ve said to them: look, he’s not to spend another night in this place on his own, right? I’m making it my personal business to make sure you’re safe. So here’s my card.’ He took a crisp white business card from his pocket and slid it across the coffee table towards Darkin – Hugo Bennington, England Always. ‘I want you to call me if there’s any problem at all. I mean, literally anything. I’ve got you covered.’
He stood up and held out his hand.
‘Thank you,’ said Darkin. ‘You’ve … I mean, no-one else has—’
‘I know,’ said Bennington. ‘Take care of yourself, chap. I’ll come and see you in your new place. No, no. Don’t get up. I’ll see myself out.’
He gave a little wave and let himself out the front door, leaving Darkin alone on the sofa, sensation still not fully returned to his legs, the adrenaline still lingering in his system after hearing all that racket and clamour on the stairway and then sitting in his bathroom, braced for the crash of his front door, the heavy thump of someone shouldering their way into the last little room he could honestly call his own. He leaned forward and lit another cigarette, no longer caring how long it had been since the last one. He remembered them taking Flo, when she’d got too bad to know what was going on or who anyone was, saying it was for her safety. He remembered squaring up to the social worker, the police officer, the doctor, saying, I’m not ready, I’m not ready to give up on her yet, and them saying, You tried your best, anyone can see you tried your best. He remembered the shame he’d felt at having to let her go, at being cuffed and led
outside, still shouting, defeated. Then he remembered visiting her in the home, helpless as he watched her fade and die.
They could have this place if they wanted it so badly, he thought. He’d be alright. He’d be looked after. Let the next generation worry about what to do. He was done.
A knock sounded at the door. A voice he recognised, calling his name. Jones, he thought, the man from Downton. Here to help. He ground out his cigarette in the ashtray and reached for his stick.
The kitchen timer went off, alerting him to what he already knew: that everything was out of order, cruelly reversed and unbalanced, the alarms sounding only to confirm it was all already over.
*
The work of sustaining the fantasy that he’d helped Darkin, or, if he hadn’t, that he’d at least acted out of some sense of greater good, began as soon as Hugo closed Darkin’s front door behind him, and continued a few seconds later when he passed Jones on the stairway and acknowledged him with only the faintest wink. After that, the work of sustainment was matched by the effort of suppression – the arduous tamping down of doubts, fears, regret, that would characterise much of Hugo’s later life. In the years that followed, his conscience would see-saw, but his resentment would remain at a constant pitch. His meeting with Darkin was not, as he’d envisaged, the moment his political career evolved into the phenomenon he’d always imagined it to be. Instead, it was the moment that career ended, his last truly political act.
Having passed Jones silently on the stairs, Hugo found Teddy waiting for him at the bottom of the stairwell, not, as he usually was, tapping around on his tablet and giving off an air of contented distraction, but instead standing unusually still, looking right at Hugo.
‘Job done?’ he said.
‘Done,’ said Hugo. ‘Jones is—’
‘I know,’ said Teddy. ‘I just checked in with him.’
‘You … Well, great. Everything’s sorted then. I’ll just go and give the press a bit of a speech, and then we can—’