Matlock's System

by Reginald Hill

  He increased his pace. So did the other, and they arrived at the door almost simultaneously. Matlock halted and the two men looked into each other’s face. Matlock saw a pair of deep-set, grey eyes, a flattened, pugilist’s nose and a fiercely unkempt brown beard. He had the feeling that the other was looking deeper into his own face and he resisted the strong temptation to speak first which this uncomfortable sensation produced.

  But before he could learn whether his effort was to be rewarded, the silent contest was interrupted. The door of the hovercar slid smoothly open and a young man as extreme in his elegance as the bearded man in his disarray, stepped out.

  “Mr. Matlock, Sir?” he said with the near insolent deference of office. “I have a message for you. Will you sign please?”

  He handed over a small plain envelope and Matlock stabbed his forefinger automatically in the proffered receipt- wax. The bearded man had resumed his walk immediately the door opened and was now almost out of sight. Matlock could hardly believe that he had stopped at all.

  The young man followed his gaze.

  “Strange fellows about these days, Sir,” he said. “Goodnight to you, Mr. Matlock.”

  He stepped back into the hovercar which pulled away instantly and noiselessly.

  Matlock waited a few moments to see if the bearded man would return, but the street remained silent. Finally he operated his sonic key and entered the building. Immediately he was in his own flat he opened the envelope. Inside was a single sheet of paper. On it in an almost indecipherably ornate hand was written, ‘I would be awfully glad if you could call in to see me first thing tomorrow morning. Yours, Browning.’

  He had been summoned to see the Prime Minister. Instead of his usual coffee and brandy, he took three sleeping tablets and went immediately to bed, knowing that if he sat up in thought for any time at all, he would in the end telephone Colin and Ernst. Or Lizzie. It might be interesting to see which ’phoned first.

  But best of all was sleep.

  2

  My “dear Matt! Do step in.” Jack Browning came forward with his hand outstretched and a smile of apparently real pleasure on his face.

  “Thank you, Clive,” he said to the smooth young man who had ushered Matlock into the room, then to Matlock, “I hope you didn’t mind my sending the hovercar for you.”

  “Not in the least,” said Matlock, and he was speaking the truth. “I enjoyed its company.”

  Browning looked at him quizzically. The smooth young man who seemed reluctant to accept his dismissal said acidly, “Mr. Matlock did not care to be driven here, Prime Minister. He walked with the car behind him.”

  “Did he now? How very odd of you, Matt,” said Browning his smile re-appearing, even broader.

  Matlock began to wonder how clever he had been. It had seemed a good publicity stunt to approach the House with the large official car crawling at his heels like a monstrous but obedient dog.

  Several photographs had been taken and a large number of questions asked by the horde of journalists whose prowling ground this was. It had seemed a useful and entertaining manoeuvre.

  Now faced by Browning’s enjoyment of the jest, it all seemed rather silly. Worse, he felt that something like this might have been exactly what Browning had planned. Then he reminded himself that Browning’s strength as a politician had always been his capacity for being unsurprised. It was said of him (by friends and foes alike) that he could turn a disaster into a forecast within a day, and into a plan by the end of the week.

  The reluctant Clive having removed himself, Matlock was ushered to a chair, upright but comfortable — a compromise between the official and the domestic which he felt rather suited the situation. The Prime Minister himself looked very relaxed and unofficial. He was casually but immaculately dressed, and wore no tie. His crinkly brown hair had just that touch of untidiness which gave an effect of vigour and energy and which it was said took two hairdressers three hours a week to maintain. His square farmer’s face was aglow with health and he carried his fifteen stone lightly on his six foot plus frame. As always, Matlock felt physically diminished by the man, by his bulk, his lightness of foot, his vigour, the very richness of his voice.

  “Now what about a drink, Matt? Whisky?”

  “It’s too early in the morning to be patriotic, Prime Minister,” he answered.

  Browning boomed with laughter, then came over to Matlock with two brimming glasses and sat beside him.

  “We don’t see enough of you, Matt. This bunch of sycophantic moles I’m surrounded with make me take myself too seriously.”

  “Only those in danger from delusion of grandeur need deflation,” said Matlock.

  He took a sip of his drink and recognized without surprise his favourite Scotch. It was a long time since he had tasted it.

  “They wouldn’t like this in Yorkshire,” he said, indicating his glass, referring to the main source of English whisky since the secession of Scotland.

  “They’re not bloody well going to get it in Yorkshire,” laughed Browning.

  “Anyway, we’ve got to support our neighbours. It’s like liar dice. You look after the man on your right.”

  “I would hardly have thought the Scots, or anyone for that matter, were on your right, Prime Minister.”

  Browning stood up and leaned against the mantelshelf. It was a perfectly casual move and one which fitted perfectly with the appearance of the man — a gentleman farmer elegantly at home in his own parlour. Not that such a creature had existed for half a century or more, but Matlock recognized it. He also recognized the picture behind Browning’s head.

  “Careful, Matt. You’re talking about the party you helped to make great.”

  It was a photograph of seven men and three women talking casually against a background of fruit trees in blossom.

  Browning followed Matlock’s gaze and nodded twice.

  “That was it. Matt. That first Cabinet. I was only a toddler then, but that picture means something to me.”

  Matlock rose and moved towards the mantelshelf. Browning stepped aside.

  “Have a good look, Matt. Those must have been great days.”

  He watched with approval as Matlock reached up and unhooked the photo from the wall, and the approval remained as Matlock placed the picture face downwards on the mantelshelf and looked quizzically at the small oval-shaped discoloration on the wallpaper.

  “It can only have started meaning something to you quite recently, Prime Minister. I would be interested in purchasing the miniature that used to hang here if you have grown tired of it.”

  Browning downed his drink with gusto and went to pour himself another.

  “It’s like a game, Matt; a great game. It’s marvellous to meet someone who’s almost as good as me at it. Or at least to meet someone who dares show he’s almost as good as me. I don’t surround myself by fools. Never did. That’s a fool’s policy. But they only let me see so much cleverness, no more. That’s what being clever is.”

  “I take it you’re practising what you preach, Prime Minister?”

  Browning slapped his thigh. Matlock had never seen anyone slap his own thigh, and he mentally applauded the naturalness of the innately ludicrous gesture.

  “So you see me as a kind of subtle Iago? Dishonest even in his protestations of dishonesty? Why do you think I brought you here, Matt?”

  “Invited. You invited me. I accepted your invitation.”

  “And damn decent of you it was. Why?”

  “Why what? Or rather, which why?”

  “Answer what you will, Matt. It’s been all counter-punching so far. Let’s have some aggression.”

  “How curious your terminology is. Boxing has been outlawed in this country for thirty years.”

  “I travel a lot, Matt. It goes with the job. Go on talking.”

  “All right. If you will. You’re obviously fishing for a cue. I’ll endeavour to pander to your theatrical whims and supply you with it. I think you would like to do a deal.
I have some small nuisance value — perhaps more than I am aware. Your government is approaching Budget Day with greater trepidation than ever before. It’s worth an hour of your time trying to buy me off. But no more. Am I right?”

  Browning looked full at Matlock, his body tense and now with no trace of merriment on his face.

  “No, Matt. Wrong. I brought you here to have you killed.”

  Matlock’s stomach twisted violently and he felt the blood drain from his cheeks, leaving his head light and giddy.

  Then Browning’s great jovial laugh filled the room, echoing and re-echoing as the Prime Minister doubled up with mirth.

  “I had you there, Matt. For a moment, you believed me. Admit it, eh?”

  Matlock could say nothing. He took a long pull at his drink and sat stiffly, filled with self-loathing.

  It’s true then. I fear death that much. It’s true. I am terrified. I am paralysed with fear at the awareness of death. It is true. This is the reality in the midst of all my moral abstractions. It is true. I am afraid, selfishly, egotistically, isolatedly afraid.

  Browning was speaking again, with a serious note in his voice now.

  “But all the same and joking apart, Matt, it’s a bit sad that it’s come to this between us. That you could really believe that, even for a moment, that I had the inclination or the power to have you killed. This is a democracy we live in, not a police state. I’m a civilized man, a politician. You’re an opponent, but I hope I can still keep you as a friend. And even politically we were once on the same side of the fence.”

  Matlock still did not trust himself to speak. Browning went on.

  “You were right of course. I’ve brought you here to offer you a deal. But before I do, there’s something I’d like you to see. You’re always ready to tell me what I am, Matt, to use my own words against me, to show the world how you feel I am being dishonest, deceptive, immoral. Sometimes what you say hits home, rings a bell. You may not think so, but it does. Well, I’m going to offer you a chance to take instead of give for a change. I’m not going to accuse, to point, to decry. Just show. We should all face our origins some time. Are you ready to do that here and now?”

  Matlock pulled himself together. This was no time for introspection. He wondered how much of his reactions had shown and was thankful that he too was not unskilled in the use of political masks.

  “I never forget my origins, personal or public, by day or by night, Prime Minister.” He decided to test how much Browning wanted him to stay. “It seems a shame to waste your time in reminiscence. I think I should be off.”

  Browning leaned forward and stabbed a button on his desk, then stood up and made for the door.

  “That’s very good of you, Matt. But there’s no need to worry about me. I’ll leave you to your own devices for a while and catch up on a bit a work. See you soon.”

  He slipped through the door which clicked with ominous finality behind him. The poro-glass windows blackened and the room was engulfed in total darkness. Matlock started to his feet, the terror back, then subsided again as a white square glowed in the wall opposite him and he realized what was happening. He was being shown a film.

  Back projection was being used of course, so there was no stream of light pouring over his head. Also it was obviously a poro-glass screen, the advantage of which was that its shape and size were easily altered.

  An impersonal voice began to speak. There was still no image on the screen.

  “Matlock Matthew. Born Carlisle, Cumberland, Committee Region 62. Parents ...”

  And now the picture appeared. His mother, long haired, bright eyed, her lovely face animated as she mouthed silent badinage at the camera-man; his father, tall, thin, a trifle ascetic, but touched as always by the fullness of life which overflowed from his wife. These were home movies. Matlock dimly recollected having seen them before. If asked where they were he would have guessed in one of the trunks that contained all he had wanted to keep of his childhood home and which had lain in storage untouched for forty-five years. Untouched by himself, at least.

  Matlock saw himself on the screen now. A mere child. An only child.

  His education and adolescent life were dealt with briefly, but with a remarkable attention to essential detail. It didn’t surprise him. No one grew up without leaving traces of his passage. Everyone left a trail of pictures and tapes and documents marking a clear path from birth to the grave. Since the passing of the Age Act, the necessity for close documentation had become still more acute.

  But soon he felt a growing unease as it became apparent that ever since his earliest successes in politics, his every move had been carefully supervised.

  The voice went on: “The accidental death of his parents in May 1982 came at an opportune moment. He had been moving further and further towards the Uniradical Party and only his emotional loyalty to his father and mother had prevented him from openly joining at an earlier date. Now he accepted the Party discipline, was soon adopted as a candidate and was elected at his second attempt.”

  The film now was all professionally shot. Some of it was newscast material; much wasn’t. In an effort to be fair, he reminded himself that much of it must have been shot at the instigation of the Lib-Lab coalition then in office, and only later inherited by the Unirads.

  The years in Opposition were soon disposed of, but not without a clear picture being sketched of Matlock’s attitudes to the big questions of the day. The drive, the force, the sense of mission, the ruthlessness of this ghost from his own past were always apparent.

  The events which led to the expansion of the Unirads from one of the smallest Parties in the House (five or six new Parties had gained representation in the seventies and eighties of the twentieth century) to the first Party in nearly ten years capable of governing without coalition, were clearly and honestly indicated. The world was in economic chaos, due mainly to the population explosion. America and Russia had turned their backs on their former allies and retreated into self-sufficient isolation in which the only things that mattered were employment and food. Their moonbases were abandoned by both nations and the planets handed back to the science fiction writers. The European common market was creaking along in an atmosphere of mutual distrust at Governmental level and hatred at national level. The Lib-Labs had put all their eggs in the European basket and when the Great Consult of Brussels in 1987 broke up in confusion and recrimination, the British Government fell. The Unirads, who had been advocating a return to insularity for years, were returned to Parliament with a slender overall majority.

  It was a great year for Matlock. He was elected with the largest personal majority ever known in modem Parliamentary history, he married Edna Carswell, only daughter of the party leader, and he was made at the age of twenty-seven Secretary of State at the Ministry of National Re-organization.

  The photograph above the mantelshelf appeared now for a moment. Matlock looked at his fresh young face, brown against the apple-blossom of Carswell’s orchard, and found he was clenching his fist till it seemed that these savagely sharp knuckles would cut through his skin.

  Now the voice was stressing, gently but insistently, that the main policymaking responsibility of this first Unirad government was Matlock’s. His own post was a new creation. He made it the most important in the Cabinet.

  “The decision to quit Europe was the Party’s. The speed and completeness with which it was put into effect were Matlock’s,” said the voice. “He rescued more for Britain than had ever seemed possible and left the other European nations bewildered at the fate which had overtaken them. Within weeks every other British overseas commitment had been cancelled. The national enthusiasm which had brought the Unirads to power reached incredible proportions and Matlock’s personal popularity was so vast that many felt he would have taken over the leadership of the Party had it not been in his father-in-law’s hands.”

  Matlock smiled for the first time since the film had started.

  It amused him for on
ce to be wrongly assigned a virtuous motive instead of the other way round. The reason he had not taken over the leadership of the Party was practical, not sentimental. Indeed, old Carswell had offered to stand down.

  But his smile faded as the voice continued.

  “The truth is that Matlock was not yet absolutely certain of his authority, whereas Carswell could only be challenged by Matlock. And he still had the biggest step of all to take.

  “In January 1991 Matlock introduced the Age Bill.”

  Matlock who had felt uncomfortably hot for some time began to sweat profusely. On an impulse he rose, knelt in a comer and put his hand over the airconditioning duct.

  The gentle stream of air was burning hot. He almost heard Browning’s appreciative chuckle and the air began to grow cooler even as he took his hand away.

  Back on the screen, the effects of the introduction of the Age Bill were being described. Comfortable again — in body, but not in mind — Matlock watched as the strikes, the demonstrations, the protest-meetings unfolded on the wall.

  Then he saw himself, young, confident, poker-faced, being escorted by the police through booing crowds from the House to the Westminster Bridge Hover-launch. He had seen this sequence a hundred times. Until comparatively recently it had appeared at least a couple of times a year on the popular Tele-recall programmes. It was still, so he was told, a leading request item on these shows.

  As he stepped on to the pier, over the heads of the demonstrators in full view of the cameras soared a small round object. The sun glinted on it as it spun in the air. The young Matlock stepped forward casually, cupped his hands close to his chest like a seasoned cricketer, caught it; then, changing sport, turned, dropped it on to his foot and booted it far out into the clear blue waters of the Thames.

  It exploded just below the surface. A fountain of water arched into the air and its outermost fringe rained down on the pier where the police were plunging into the bewildered crowd in pursuit of the thrower.