The Family

by P. R. Black

  A five-minute trip on a tram took her into the centre of Brussels, and after a quick security check to verify that she was, indeed, Marion Clifford, a freelance journalist, she was soon through into the main parliament building.

  She waited a while in a shiny leather sofa that looked and smelled new. More than anywhere she’d ever been, including Westminster, this place was epic; despite the bustle of activity round her, human endeavour of any sort seemed muted in such an enormous space, perhaps even up to and including explosions. It was a cathedral of peace and light.

  The man she had come to meet was precisely on time.

  ‘Miss Clifford?’ She nodded and rose to meet him.

  Edwin Galbraith, reluctant MEP, enthusiastic right-wing upstart, sometimes in Strasbourg but today in Brussels, smiled disarmingly and thrust out his hand. His handshake was firm, but brisk. His sober blue suit, slight paunch and rounded spectacles made him look older than he was, while his long chin and the high, tight cropping on a good head of fair hair reminded Becky of a technical drawing teacher she hadn’t thought of in years. He would particularly suit a V-neck pullover that hadn’t been changed in a while, she decided, and perhaps a pencil perched behind his ear.

  ‘What do you think of the seat of power of our European oppressors?’

  ‘I was just thinking it was like the biggest cathedral I’d ever seen.’

  ‘I’ve always thought it was like that spaceport in Star Wars. Though the music’s not nearly so catchy.’

  ‘Mos Eisley? So long as there’s no ray guns, I think we’ll be fine.’ Becky smiled, hoping she hadn’t stained her teeth with lipstick.

  ‘So… Miss Clifford…’

  ‘That’s me.’

  ‘Come into my parlour.’

  Galbraith’s ‘parlour’ was a beautifully-appointed canteen, occupied by well-dressed, important-looking people. Becky kicked herself for being unable able to identify them. Galbraith chose a secluded table in a corner, and decided to order coffee on her behalf, which threw her to an almost absurd degree.

  ‘I must admit,’ Galbraith said, sniffing at the strong, thick brew, ‘it’s not often we get volunteers of your calibre, Miss Clifford.’

  ‘Please call me Marion.’

  He nodded gracefully. ‘The people I usually get approaching me are, to be blunt, not particularly subtle when it comes to the world of politics. How can I put it? They might be better suited to… our security team.’

  ‘That’s very sad,’ she said, allowing him to pour milk into her cup to his own specification. ‘I mean, enthusiasm for our cause is a good thing. But in my opinion, we need fewer bald heads and thick necks to get our point across. Those are precisely the type of people that have stifled the debate on the right wing.’

  He leaned forward, eyes keen. ‘Sad, but all too true. That’s why meeting people like you gives me such hope.’

  His accent was perfectly British, perfectly refined, and utterly reasonable. Edwin Galbraith was seen as the great white hope of the extreme right, a polished, considered performer who was rarely flustered no matter what invective was aimed at him. He hadn’t quite made it to Westminster, but he’d made Brussels his home and the source of his extremely comfortable lifestyle for a decade – a sublime irony.

  One of Becky’s colleagues had sparked envy and admiration among his fellow hacks when he perfectly described Galbraith as having the unnerving habit of becoming acceptable background noise: ‘When he speaks, we’re like babies lulled to sleep by a washing machine.’

  ‘I’m all clear for the next couple of weeks,’ Becky said. ‘My core skills are in public relations, so if I could attach myself to your office, that’d be terrific.’

  ‘I’m sure we could find a role – you’d be amazed at the amount of work we get through on a daily basis. The media, Marion – it never sleeps. It’s an unkillable beast. Now, more than ever before, even with the newspapers in their death throes.’

  ‘That’s true. Everything’s spread online, now. Everything.’

  ‘Indeed. But TV’s still a must, arguably more important than the internet for getting a message across. We’ve had one or two good people in the past, but… it takes a thick skin to work in politics, Marion. Bulletproof, in fact. And to work on our PR team, I have to tell you – you’ll need an especially thick skin.’

  ‘I think my skin’s thick enough,’ she said, dropping a sugar lump in her cup.

  ‘I don’t doubt it.’ Galbraith smiled, diffidently, then suddenly brightened. ‘This is silly. We’re in the middle of Brussels and we’re stuck in the factory canteen. Why don’t we head out and get some proper lunch?’

  She blinked, rapidly, and lowered her eyes, throwing herself into the role. ‘Oh… only if you’re sure. I was surprised you even had time on your schedule for a coffee.’

  ‘I’ve always got time for a first-rate CV,’ he said, smiling broadly – and revealing why he rarely did so in his publicity shots. English teeth was the phrase; more claw than enamel. ‘Let’s get out of here, come on. My treat.’

  And so they went off-campus, and soon found themselves in a bustling lane. Waiters threaded their way through the brisk lunchtime crowd; tourists mingled easily with people in businesswear. Despite the perilous scenario, Becky felt a treacherous tug in her breast. There was the smell of fresh bread, the tang of seafood and garlic butter – and there, a mellow gold in the light, was a tall, clear glass of Pilsner laid down in front of a portly tourist. Everywhere she looked offered the promise of alcohol and laughter – and all that followed. She felt younger than she was.

  Incredibly, Galbraith ordered for her again. ‘Seafood platter okay? Not allergic, are you? This is the best in the city.’

  ‘Absolutely, seafood’s fine for me.’

  ‘And you’ll have a beer? It has to be beer in Brussels, you know.’

  She hesitated, but only for a moment. ‘Why not? I’ll have the peach beer, in fact.’

  ‘Excellent choice. I’m more of a raspberry man, myself.’ He ordered Friuli, and watched with a kind of reverence as the waiter poured half of it into a glass shaped like a tulip bulb. The deep red brew kindled in the light.

  Becky sipped at her drink, and felt its treacherous cool fingers tickle her stomach. ‘So, do you have much close contact with our friends from the Netherlands and France in parliament?’

  He nodded. ‘Quite a lot, in fact. They want the same things, that’s no secret. Despite dear Albion’s imminent exit, there’s broad consensus between us on many matters, as you might suppose.’

  ‘Immigration being one of them.’

  ‘Naturally.’ He palmed away froth from his upper lip. ‘But their methods leave much to be desired. The key thing about our kind of politics is that we must calm people’s fears. We must appeal to rational, educated people. We have to show we’re civilised and reasonable. That there’s nothing wrong with our views and our goals.’ He chuckled. ‘I can’t tell you the problems I’ve had, trying to make sure our voice is rational, consistent, logical.’

  ‘I totally agree. So many people I speak to make the assumption that “right wing” equals “some kind of nut”. It’s so frustrating.’

  He laid a hand on her arm so gently she might not have known it was there, had she not seen him move. ‘I sympathise, totally.’

  How easy this is. A smile, a skirt, some lipstick, high fucking heels. What a simple matter it is to reel them in.

  ‘I want to redress the balance,’ she said, earnestly. ‘And I think I’m the person who can do that for you. If you want me, that is.’

  ‘I’m flattered, Marion. It’s a great offer.’ He had liquid brown eyes that captured the light, but they weren’t quite those of a puppy; they were too small. They belonged on another creature.

  ‘So,’ she said, ‘seeing as this is my first day on the job – what’s on the agenda for me today?’

  He laughed and sat back. ‘Well, for a start, you can tell me where you’re hiding it.’

  ‘
Hiding…?’

  ‘The camera. Is it in one of your earrings? That button-hole on your jacket? The handbag on the table is a classic, you know. But you seem smarter than the average blagger.’

  Her heart lurched. ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Oh, come on.’ He folded his arms. ‘’Can I be your intern?’ You expect to just walk in and start work in this party just like that?’

  ‘I don’t understand. I thought we had an agreement? That this was a job interview?’

  ‘Yes. A job interview for someone who doesn’t appear to exist.’ He raised a hand to cut off her protest. ‘Oh, don’t bother, I’m sure you’ve got ID. It probably looks legitimate. But we’re not entirely stupid. We carried out some research on Marion Clifford. There wasn’t much in the way of bylines to be found.’

  ‘I’ve mostly worked in an editorial capacity,’ she stammered. ‘My CV is quite clear about this.’ Did the colour rising on her cheeks complement her lipstick, she wondered?

  ‘I took the liberty of calling one or two hacks of my acquaintance. Birds of a feather, you might call them. Not many of them had heard of a Marion Clifford. And not on the Gauntlet or Shockwave FM, either. So… if you don’t mind… who are you, and why are you here?’

  She felt like she was at school, all of a sudden. Singled out, with a raptor-eyed teacher freezing her with one single pointed finger. She felt faint; for an absurd second, tears prickled the corner of her eyes.

  Becky collected herself, pulling her sleeves tight. She considered leaving, just cutting her losses and getting out of there. She’d been careful to plant the odd byline here and there in the past few months; ‘Marion Clifford’ had in fact been a fake ID she’d used in her early days in journalism, one of a host of fake names. She had wanted to reel Galbraith in before addressing what she really wanted. In her arrogance she had wondered if she might even have dug a little extra dirt on him by then – political dirt, that is.

  Becky decided to get to the point. Only just concealing the tremor in her voice, she said: ‘It’s not usually my style to ruin someone’s day like this. Please bear with me, Mr Galbraith.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘First of all, I want to assure you that I’m not recording this in any way. No pinhole cameras, no hidden microphones, and, I can assure the audience, nothing up either sleeve.’ She showed him her wrists, theatrically.

  He snorted. ‘Short of running you through a metal detector, or having you searched, that hardly proves anything.’

  ‘I don’t know why you’re so shy, Mr Galbraith. Surely a seasoned, front-line politician like you wouldn’t have anything to hide?’

  He grinned, but not pleasantly. His posture had completely changed; he was sat upright, with his hands clenched before him. ‘Oh. This is good. Now you sound like a proper journalist. Now it sounds like we’re down to business.’

  ‘I can also say at this point that I’m not interested in catching you out or recording you covertly… if you were to make some offhand racist comments, say, or if you offered some unpleasant commentary about letting refugees drown. Or if you said something to do with your party’s policies and core beliefs, for example. I think they’re well enough known by now. They’re not news.’

  ‘I resent what you’re implying, and I would urge you to be extremely cautious, miss.’

  ‘Snap. That’s why I have to say, if you happen to be recording this conversation, say, with a pinhole camera in that lovely tiepin you have there, or in your cufflinks, I think you should stop. Right now.’

  He frowned. ‘Out with it. What is it you want? Money? You think you’ve got something to bribe me with? I’ve heard it all before. I’ve had tabloid cretins like you crawling through my bins. Grubbing round like rats. They’ve spent days on end trying to put my shredded files together with sticky-tape. And you know what they’ve found? Nothing. No extra-marital affairs, no drug-taking… nothing. You know why? Because there is nothing.’ He held up his Friuli. ‘The odd one of these, sure. When I’m out for lunch, or the odd one on a Friday night when I’m back home with my wife. But that’s all. And frankly, the way you people take to the stuff, you’ve got a bloody nerve writing anything about it.’ He slammed the beer bottle down.

  One of the waiters glanced in their direction, frowning.

  Her wires thrumming with adrenaline, Becky’s natural inclination was to bite back. But she kept her voice low, and her expression neutral. ‘I am not after your money. Frankly, I’m not even interested in your politics. Your stock has dropped in the past six months. Or hadn’t you noticed? Your party’s had its day.’

  Galbraith got to his feet. ‘I think that’s about all I have time for, Miss Clifford. Do enjoy your stay in Brussels.’

  ‘Please sit down, Mr Galbraith. What I want is information. That’s all.’

  He hesitated. ‘What kind of information?’

  ‘If I mentioned the Billy Goats Gruff… would that phrase mean anything to you?’

  You could fake a lot of things, Becky thought. Surprise was an easy one. Confusion was another. But that split second of realisation – that instant of time where you understand someone has hit the target, dead centre – that reaction was in fact hard to feign, and near-impossible to conceal.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘You do. Billy Goats Gruff. Hertfordshire. Early nineties. Does any of that seem familiar?’

  His lips trembled. ‘You’ll be hearing from my solicitors. And I’ll make sure any editor worth his salt never has anything to do with you.’

  ‘Take it easy. I’m not threatening you, and I don’t intend to. Sit down, Mr Galbraith. Let’s talk it over. We do have a seafood platter to enjoy after all. ‘

  He sat back down, his face the colour of putty. It seemed impossible that hair could grow on that chin, or ever had before. ‘There’s nothing to talk about.’

  ‘We both know that there is. I won’t go into any details. I won’t tell you what I have. I will only say that it makes it abundantly clear that you know all about the Billy Goats Gruff.’

  Galbraith’s eyes narrowed. He’s going to fight, Becky thought. What a marvel. ‘You know,’ he whispered, ‘I could make things more uncomfortable for you than you realise. Extremely uncomfortable.’

  ‘You could – I don’t doubt it. My research has shown that the Billy Goats Gruff was a serious club, for extremely serious gentlemen, committing extremely serious offences. Well, one of the three of you did, anyway. The one who was all set to go to court, before he had that unfortunate business on the east coast main line.’

  ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about. None whatsoever. It sounds like pie in the sky.’

  Becky ignored him. ‘Here’s some rules. First of all: if anything at all should happen to me, then the Billy Goats Gruff will become public knowledge. Even if the papers won’t touch it – and they will, believe me – then I’ll spread it across the internet. It’s a very easy thing to do these days, especially when it comes to politicians and… well, the kind of things the Billy Goats Gruff did.’

  Galbraith checked his watch. He affected boredom, now; he’d had time to think. ‘You’ve got one minute, Miss Clifford. I have things to do this afternoon.’

  ‘Finish your beer, Mr Galbraith. Just listen. I won’t be a minute more. The second thing I want you to understand is that I don’t want you. I don’t even want the Billy Goats Gruff. But I do want you to do some digging for me. I want information. I want to know about similar clubs to the Billy Goats Gruff you may have encountered in your travels. Based in Europe. And not ones who just like tying up schoolgirls. I want to know about ones who take things a bit further than that.’

  He leaned back in his seat and shook his head. ‘You’ve gone cosmic on me. Really, I have not the slightest inkling of what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Murder is what I’m talking about,’ Becky said. ‘I want any names you can find among your contacts who might be into that sort of thing. Use t
he old school tie, if you must. The harder stuff is just a hop, skip and a jump away from the Billy Goats Gruff. I assume you’re still in touch with the other member, whoever he is? Last meeting you held was… whoa… 2006? That’s not in the too-distant past, really.’

  ‘Time’s up,’ Galbraith said. He drained his beer and counted off some banknotes. ‘I’ll get the bill. Don’t be making off with this cash, will you? This is a reputable place. I suppose I can’t stop you claiming it on expenses, though.’

  Becky dropped a business card on top of the money. ‘Do some digging. Ask some questions. You’re a clever man. You can do it without attracting attention. You might even do it on… what’s the name of that forum you use? On the dark web? Pink Candles? Something like that?’

  Galbraith said nothing. His eyes watered. His hands clenched, tight enough to bleach the knuckles.

  ‘Get back to me sooner rather than later, if you would, Mr Galbraith. I want to know some names. Europe. Early nineties onwards. Groups of people or individuals who are into making young women and girls disappear. Trafficked women, kidnapped women. Ones who vanish. Ones who end up dead. Men who are into that kind of stuff.’

  He turned to leave; jaw clenching. At the last instant, he took the card. Then he was gone.

  Becky placed her hands flat on the table, willing them to stop shaking. They obeyed, insofar as she did not spill any peach beer as she drained it in two long gulps.

  A waiter appeared with an immense silver platter piled high with seafood, a bouquet of red and pink still life. The claw of a lobster seemed to reach out for her. ‘Miss?’ he said in French. ‘Is everything well?’

  ‘Everything is marvellous,’ Becky replied. ‘It’s been an excellent day.’

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