“Of course not, you condemn any group that resorts to violence, and re-enforce the need to let the police do their jobs. As to the charge the government is in any way responsible for these groups, you don’t allude to the suggestion in any form.”
“And if I’m asked directly, do I feel our actions have in any way contributed to the situation?” Andrew asked.
“Then, my dear friend,” Nigel grimaced as he spoke. “You give a politician’s answer, you ignore the question and reiterate your message, the police must be allowed to deal with the unrest.”
“Okay, okay.” Andrew sat down, his face an image of concentration.
There was a knock at the door, the Home Secretary entered followed by the Police Commissioner, both glared at Nigel as they did so. Nigel glared back at them.
“Welcome gentlemen, have a seat.” Andrew stood and then gestured toward the chairs, the confident façade of PM firmly in place. Nigel walked over and sat down also, confident that Andrew would want him there for the meeting.
“Could you get us a round of tea please?”
His secretary went to organise the beverages.
“I’ve brought Nigel up to speed.”
“Of course you have Prime Minister,” the Home Secretary replied. Nigel could hear the sarcasm, if Andrew detected it, he didn’t flicker.
“I think our best strategy would be…” Andrew basically outlined the response Nigel had recommended, the Home Secretary had little to add. Nigel noted the Commissioner’s body language, he obviously had something else to comment upon and was unsure of the exact moment to reveal what it was; he waited until the tea had arrived and everyone seemed to believe they had the matter under control.
“There is another potential problem Prime Minister,” he finally spoke up.
“And what is that?” Andrew asked.
“Our resources are already stretched, if we have more disturbances in the City, as well as attacks upon the estates by vigilantes, we simply won’t have the numbers to cope.”
“Shit,” Andrew said, loudly and wholeheartedly.
“Of course it was quiet last night so hopefully-”
“Are you suggesting,” the Home Secretary interrupted him, “that we plan our response on a wish and a hope?”
“Government cuts have had an effect Home Secretary, what did you expect?” the Commissioner retorted.
Strike one for the Commissioner, Nigel thought, he was pleased he’d stayed, it was turning into quite an entertaining meeting.
“Can you call in reinforcements from any other force?” Andrew asked, his face had become quite ashen Nigel thought.
“From where Prime Minister? They’re dealing with their own rioters and, if our intelligence is correct, their own vigilante threats. Both the original troublemakers and this new concern are very well organised,” the Commissioner said.
“So, do we have any suggestions, gentlemen?” Andrew threw the floor open, his voice may have been calm in front of the Minister and Commissioner, but Nigel recognised desperation when he saw it. He alone, did not want to be culpable if things went wrong.
“We maintain our presence on the streets and react only if the information concerning the vigilante groups turns out to be true,” the Commissioner said.
“And then what, drop everything and run elsewhere?” the Home Secretary taunted, her ego required her to get a dig in over the whole budget matter.
“That’s not really helpful Home Secretary,” Andrew said.
“Perhaps if I could make a suggestion,” Nigel interjected, “we keep the bulk of the force in the city and have a small task force on stand-by, in close proximity to the benefit’s estates just in case. Otherwise if the press get wind of the fact we were pre-warned there could be trouble in the estates, then they can’t accuse us of turning a blind eye to the information.”
Andrew nodded.
Nigel knew the Home Secretary would be obliged to come up with something now, just to save face. “And, of course, we could always call in the army, put them on stand-by, just in case the police can’t cope.”
“It’s not a case of not being able to cope Prime Minister…”
The Commissioner carried on justifying his existence, but Nigel could see how much Andrew’s already pale face, had blanched even further at the mention of the army; that word, beyond everything else was now stuck in his head. It was bizarre, politicians looked forward, to the future, let their ambition lead them to the top of the pile, and then once they’d achieved it they immediately began looking backwards to assess their, all important, legacy. Nigel could see that was exactly what Andrew was doing now , he’d be the first Prime Minister in, however many decades, to have to deploy troops onto the streets in peace time.
He finally emerged from his inertia.
“I agree with the Commissioner, I don’t think we should give the actions of a few mindless hooligans any sort of endorsement by calling upon the armed forces. They are a violent minority, let’s not make them seem any more than that. Commissioner, I want half hourly updates tonight, any signs of vigilante retaliation and I want to know…before the damn press.”
Interesting, police and potentially the army on the streets of Britain, presumably this was what Sir George was looking forward to. Now why would he want to incite such a state of unrest?
Chapter fifty-three
Nigel sat nursing a brandy, Andrew and Parks had opted for a scotch, conversation was non-existent. Everyone was working late, or more correctly, they were all sitting, waiting for an event they really didn’t want to happen. As Nigel had strolled through the endless rows of minions outside Andrew’s office, even strained, whispered conversation had halted and their attention had focused upon him, their gaze following his progress.
Andrew had a large clock on his wall, Nigel had never noticed its loud tick before now, but this evening it seemed to match his heartbeat. Attempts at conversation had been abandoned, they’d gone so far along the, ‘what if,’ route that their immediate position had become almost unrecognisable; even the weather had ceased to hold its normal fascination for floundering conversation. Instead they just waited, the machine of government poised to go from start to sixty within the space of a second. The Commissioner would report straight to Andrew, give him an overview of the state of the country, and upon the city in particular. The pool of talent outside the PM’s office would run interference between police forces around the country, delivering updates in snippets of salient information.
But for now Nigel watched the muted screen of News 24, and the third run of a story about traces of horsemeat found in beef ready meal dishes. The phone on Andrew’s desk broke the silence, a harsh, urgent alarm. As he picked up the receiver it appeared on the screen, a breaking news tag relaying reports of violence in the city centre. He switched the sound back on as he spoke to Lowston.
“How many?” he asked. “If News 24 can give me an estimate, I expect you to be able to…”
The reporters looked earnestly out of the monitor. “We’ll leave that story if we may, as we are receiving news that violence has once more…”
“Do you have them contained?” Andrew asked.
“…eye witness accounts are calling it the biggest…”
“Then move your men there for god’s sake…”
“…reports of petrol bombs being thrown at the police…”
“…seriously telling me that the protesters are more mobile than…”
“…focused this time in more residential areas…”
“…I am aware of what your men are facing, but water cannons are a serious…”
“…of our reporters live at the scene…”
Nigel and Parks watched as a reporter stood on the edge of the violence, flaming missiles and rocks landing mere metres away, it looked like a scene from some middle-eastern country had been lifted up and transplanted into British suburbia. It was also apparent that the police who’d been first to respond, were being forced into a defensive
rather than proactive role.
Knuckles rapped loudly on the door, Nigel walked over and opened it, gesturing those on the other side to enter. The Home Secretary gave him a sour look, she obviously felt she should have been the one to grant access. Nigel ignored her and talked in hush tones to one of the aides, taking an offered piece of paper from her hand.
He turned just as Andrew put down the phone, nodding for the others to withdraw, there would be plenty more news to be relayed as the evening progressed.
“They’ve been completely wrong footed, they were stationed in the commercial centre and the hooligans have rampaged through the suburbs of Meadow East, Lowston’s redirected the police presence but it means they’re already playing catch up. I mean look at that,” Andrew gestured at the news coverage, “it looks like they’re facing a siege.”
“I’m afraid I have information that is not going to be welcome,” Nigel said, as he studied the paper. “We are getting similar reports from all over the country, once more they’ve shown themselves to be very well organised. Hooligans they may be but they are not an unruly, opportunistic mob”
“Shit,” Andrew said.
“We may need to look at tighter controls over the internet if we’re ever going to get a grip on this situation,” the Home Secretary warned.
“I think it a bit early to start restricting the average person’s freedom of speech, don’t you?” Andrew almost sneered at his Cabinet Minister.
Nigel was unsure what to do, Sir George had not instructed him upon his reaction, so he decided just to let things play out; besides the Home Secretary was doing a grand job of representing the right-wing of the party.
The phone rang once more, Andrew snatched up the receiver.
“Yes?...christ, okay do it,” he said.
“The Commissioner is calling back the officers on stand-by in case of trouble against the estates, everything seems quiet there and he needs the reinforcements.”
Nigel looked at the mess unfolding on the television and shook his head, how quickly familiar streets turned into anarchy.
“We are getting reports of ordinary citizens, taking to the streets to protect their homes and family. Sir, sir…what has prompted you to this action?”
The cameraman zoomed in on a shot of a man, in pyjamas, hosing down his lawn and the front of his house.
“We’ve got to do something, I mean where the fuck are the police, where’s the protection for ordinary people, for our homes? I mean, I’ve got two kids for fucks sake.”
The camera crew followed the man as he ran back and forth in front of his house, his voice urgent and breathless. He was joined by several more men, armed with spades and golf clubs.
“It’s alright for this lot,” he gestured at the marauding mob, “with their new homes we’ve paid for but who the fuck helps us? No-one…”
The camera went back to the reporter, a blur as he ran to keep up with developments, everything was rushed, snatched from a moment in time, the sort of correspondence usually reserved for those in a war zone.
Another knock at the door, over and over, until it became a steady stream with no pause; Nigel and the Home Secretary bombarded with staccato pieces of information, which they then relayed to Andrew between phone calls to the Commissioner. Nigel thought it exhilarating, at times it felt like the end of the world and he’d never been more satisfied with his role as master to Andrew’s puppet.
The police rallied, began to force back the mobs, water cannons had to be used, Andrew no longer had the luxury of being precious about his legacy, he had to be seen to be acting, and doing so decisively.
The phone rang once more.
“Yes?” Andrew snatched up the receiver, more feet running into the office, no one bothered to knock anymore, they didn’t have the time.
“How many?”
Nigel tried to listen to the PM while taking updates from the others.
“Can you police both areas?”
And now he knew what was happening because in his hand were messages written in capitals to match their urgency: NEWTON BENEFITS EST. ATTACKED… HIGHPORT BENEFIT EST. ATTACKED……… and they kept coming, notes pushed into his hand, one after the other.
“Leave them…don’t you think I don’t know that for god’s sake…keep me informed.”
Andrew’s face sick with the implications of his decision – leave them…the estates would be sacrifice, they hadn’t the resources to protect everyone.
Chapter fifty-four
Sir George
Sir George stifled a yawn as he enjoyed a leisurely breakfast, perusing the pages of his favourite broadsheet.
“Look at that, I don’t know what the world is coming to,” Nancy said.
Sir George lowered his paper and peered over the top of it at his wife.
“I’m sorry George, but look at it.” She pointed at the front page with a knife smeared with marmalade. Sir George disliked it when she insisted upon commenting upon any articles she read from the back of his paper, while he read from the front. After all the first meal of the day was important in establishing ones outlook and it didn’t do to feel any sense of irritation at seven thirty in the morning. However, due to the exceptional circumstances printed in that day’s paper, he could forgive her misdemeanour.
“I thought we’d given them all new houses,” she continued, frowning in confusion.
“We did,” her husband stated.
“Then I don’t understand Dear, why are they behaving so badly?”
“Because they are ungrateful yobs, who will never amount to anything while we insist upon seeing to their every need,” Sir George replied.
“I see, but they must be upset about something and it can’t be housing because Emily says the new estates look very smart; there was a picture of one of them in a magazine.”
His wife and Emily Purser had become firm friends since she’d moved back to the city following her husband’s death. Sir George thought it a suitable match.
“It’s not about housing, it’s about the fact that we are trying to give them the same responsibilities that everyone else has to deal with instead of running after them, wiping their snotty noses with a tissue.”
“I see…or rather I don’t actually George,” Nancy replied, she was obviously unsure whether her further insistence upon communication was going to be embraced or met with a stony glare and a wall of silence.
Sir George sighed. “At the moment those on welfare receive a benefits pay out once a fortnight, while housing and council benefits are made straight to the body involved. The government has brought in a bill that requires them to have some modicum of self-control and organise their finances, like the rest of us, the sum of the benefits will be paid directly to them and they must then budget to meet their bills.”
“That doesn’t seem so bad,” Nancy commented.
“It isn’t,” Sir George stated, pacing his words as if talking to a child. “They are simply looking for a reason to behave like hooligans.”
“And who are what are TOST assessments?” she asked.
But it was a step too far, Sir George had been forced to converse for long enough, now he really must be allowed to ease into the day in his own time.
“I suggest, my Dear, you read the paper once I’ve left for the club.”
“Yes George, of course,” Nancy replied.
In fact Sir George didn’t go straight to the club, his newspaper had been printed before the second story of the night really broke, but there was decent coverage, if a little repetitive on the news channel. As a rule he disliked relying upon them for information, a bunch of left wingers really, but in this case he was forced to make an exception. As he tuned in, the picture showed the front row of one of the benefit’s estates, windows smashed, fences raised to the ground and graffiti daubed over any available surface.
A reporter was trying to maintain some order amongst those anxious to comment.
“…where the fucking’ police were, that’s
what I want to know. I saw them parked a mile down the road and then they fucked off, just as the first load of trouble makers arrived,” one man said, his face twisted with anger, his body language aggressive.
“Aye, they pissed off and left us, didn’t give a fuck, we’re just scum us like, doesn’t fuckin’ matter about us,” a woman joined in, shouting over the shoulder of the man.
“My five kids were asleep, what would have happened if my neighbour hadn’t banged on my door?” Another woman yelled, wide eyed and staring.
“As you can see,” the reporter tried to turn to the camera, as hands pawed at his shoulders trying to get his attention, “emotions are still running high.”
The image went back to the studio where the news reader apologised for any offensive caused by the language in the report.
“But still, questions remain as to why these estates were seemingly left to burn, as police battled rioters elsewhere.”
Sir George thought the answer to be in the question, he turned the television off and smiled, you could always rely upon the working class to sound so utterly…well, working class, common and stupid when being interviewed. He fastened his gold watch around his wrist, he had just enough time for another pot of tea before he headed to the club to meet Nigel; time to see how their boy was holding up in light of recent developments.
*****
There was a buzz around the club that morning that Sir George had not felt in a long time, members were actually talking to each other, albeit in the soft tones usually reserved for libraries and religious establishments, but chatting nevertheless. He avoided the excited throngs and sank gratefully into his favourite chair; after all, the wrong word in the wrong ear could be catastrophic for him. How many others already knew the ending to the events they were discussing? How many had helped make it happen? He studied each of his fellow members in turn, but of course he could tell no difference between any of them, no extra gleam in the eye, no satisfied smile. Doubtlessly he too had been examined, a curious gaze above a tea cup that lasted a little too long, but if there were fellow chosen ones amongst the men gathered that morning, he would of course never know, and that was exactly as it should be.
An Ordinary Working Man Page 41