by David Harley
SIDETRACKED
David Harley
Copyright © 2019 David Harley
All rights reserved.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Part 1 – A Very English Revolution
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Part 2 – The Campaign Gets Underway
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Part 3 – Descent Into Darkness
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Part 4 – Climbing Back
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Part 5 – On the Brink of Victory
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
PART 1 – A VERY ENGLISH REVOLUTION
CHAPTER ONE
So there he was, marching down Whitehall to discover his fate, prepared to fight for his life, at the head of a procession of half a million people stretching back to Hyde Park. In fifteen minutes they would arrive. His mouth was dry and he could hear his heartbeat. Striding relentlessly forward, he paid no attention to the growl and clatter of the helicopters overhead, or the rhythmic beating of the drums behind. Like an Orange march in reverse, he thought – after what had happened, he was no loyalist to the Crown. The only thing missing was the sound of flutes and the smell of burning tyres. The young volunteers in the armed trade-union militias, some masked, rifles slung from their shoulders, walked alongside. Bright-eyed and ready for action, they scanned the tops of buildings and side alleys as they moved down the street. They all knew the army was waiting for them in Parliament Square.
Matt shot Sam a sideways glance and their eyes briefly locked. The one person he could still trust. If anyone knew what was going on in his head, it was Sam. He hoped he looked fearless, but she would sense his gnawing nerves. He wanted to show her what he was capable of in the heat of battle. If they got through the day unscathed – stuff the burdens of office, they would find some time and a quiet place to talk. Away from the crowds and the razzmatazz, the ever-shifting doubts and certainties, the highs and lows of their fight together. She had never asked for anything more than he could give. He would tell her he owed her nearly everything.
‘Have you spoken to our soldiers?’ he asked her.
‘They swear the plans are in place,’ she replied. ‘We’ll only know for certain when we get there. ’
They passed the Cenotaph, the Ministry of Defence, and then Downing Street on the other side, hidden from view behind the armoured vehicles and high concrete defences. Matt pictured James Crouch peering through his binoculars from the garret window, knowing the game was up but refusing to admit it, trapped in his bunker by his own doing. Once this absurd standstill was resolved, Matt would show no mercy. Crouch was guilty of treason. One could almost say the same of the King. His behaviour had been unforgiveable. Ten minutes left.
The change in Matt had begun six months earlier, in the cocktail bar of the Mayfair Hotel.
He sat on the edge of the group, as the magnum of champagne arrived in a silver cooler, together with eight crystal flutes.
‘To success!’ said Justin Fishbourne, raising his glass. ‘And to the man who knows how to work the system better than anyone in Westminster - Matt Barker!’
While everyone around him drank to his health, yaying and whooping, Matt stared at the pile carpet. Fishbourne leaned over and patted Matt on the thigh.
‘You’re an absolute genius. I honestly don’t think we could have got this deal without you.’
‘Thanks, Justin, but I was only doing my job.’
‘Go on, accept a little praise. Why don’t you loosen up and join the fun?’
‘Everything’s fine. The contract’s signed, we’re all happy, don’t worry about me.’
After glancing at his watch, Matt looked across at the door leading out of the bar. He knew the compliments were a sideshow, and at the first sign of trouble they would disown him. The unspoken rule never varied: lobbyists provided cover when convenient and were eminently expendable.
He had been in the game for nearly ten years and could smell an emotionally vulnerable MP or civil servant at a hundred paces. He used to enjoy walking the high wire between what was probably legal and ethical, and what definitely wasn’t. In this latest case, that sense of risk and danger had been missing. All he had done was convince an elderly backbencher to table a couple of amendments to the energy bill at committee stage, and play three games of squash with the permanent secretary, two of which he let him win.
This modest outlay had helped Western Energy to secure licences for fracking and shale gas production on Exmoor and in the Peak District. The potential profits were estimated in billions. Matt’s employer, the public affairs agency Nightingale Booth, had charged a tidy fee of two million pounds for all his hard work. Matt himself cleared up a ten per cent commission, which would be a useful cushion over the next few months in case he ran into trouble.
‘I’ve told the prime minister about you,’ said Fishbourne, bending his head and leaning into Matt’s ear. ‘He asked me to tell you the government’s very grateful.’
‘No bullshit please, Justin. Flattery makes me suspicious. It gives me the feeling someone’s trying to sell me something I don’t want.’
‘I’ll be straight with you,’ said Fishbourne. ‘There’s another small favour I’d like to ask. This time it’s more of a personal matter: I need someone who’s prepared to massage the media on a rather sensitive issue. Discreetly demolish a few reputations. Try a few diversionary tactics.’
‘Get to the point. What’s the issue and who’s the client?’
‘We’ve got a problem with some of our major shareholders. Some of them are drawing the wrong conclusions from the company accounts. To put it bluntly, they’re accusing me of robbing the employees’ pension fund.’
A wave of ennui swept over Matt.
‘And did you?’
‘How could anyone imagine I would do such a thing?’
Matt had spotted the gleam in his eye.
‘You wouldn’t be the first. If you want me to help you, you’d better start by telling me the truth.’
Fishbourne looked taken aback, even offended. Leaning forward, clasping his hands together, he lowered his voice.
‘Of course, I wouldn’t steal money from the fund. It would be disgracefully unfair on the staff. It’s been badly managed for years, and I felt it my duty to obtain a better return on investment. So on one or two occasions I took out a small temporary advance. I’ll pay everything back, naturally, once we’ve made a decent profit. There’s no point in just leaving it there, year after year, earning nothing.’
Matt felt slightly nauseous but showed no emotion. It w
as all so cheap and predictable. The light from the table-lamp glinted on Fishbourne’s gold cufflinks.
‘What exactly do you want me to do?’
‘Just dig around a bit. Plant a few stories questioning the moral probity of the shareholders leading the revolt – the usual thing, evidence of tax evasion, alleged involvement in white-collar fraud, lurid sex life – basically, whatever you can find that’ll hurt their credibility. This pension fund’s been a goldmine for me, I wouldn’t want to lose it. I’ll make it worth your while – just name your fee.’
Matt took a deep breath and blinked. His patience was seeping away.
‘I’m afraid this may be rather difficult - ’
Before he could finish, he heard someone call his name. He looked up and saw Felicity, Fishbourne’s PA, waving at him from the other side of the room.
‘Have you two got something to share with the rest of us?’
Fishbourne winced at the unwelcome interruption.
‘Just business,’ he growled back. ‘Nothing for you to worry about.’
Felicity was not to be silenced.
’Why don’t you say a few words, Matt?’ she continued. ‘Tell us your secret. How do you manage to get up the arse of so many politicians without any of them ever noticing?’
A silence fell over the room, as everyone stopped talking and waited for Matt’s answer. With their uniformly silly grins, clearly impressed by Felicity’s chutzpah, the others doubtless expected Matt to play the game and reply in the same vein. With Fishbourne’s proposal still buzzing around his head, he slowly stood up to reply.
‘You should know, Felicity. You and I have done it together often enough.’
It took two or three seconds of more mindless laughter before his words sank in, and their corner of the room fell perfectly silent.
Apart from Fishbourne, who looked puzzled, as though he was trying to recall a particularly complex mathematical formula, and Felicity, who had turned pink, the rest of them burst out laughing.
‘No offence meant,’ said Matt. ‘Anyway, that’s enough excitement for one night. You’ve been a great team. Goodnight guys!’
‘You can’t leave now,’ Fishbourne spluttered. ‘We’ve still got things to discuss.’
Matt waved him away with the back of his hand. All that was no longer his concern.
After downing his glass of champagne in a single gulp, he headed straight for the door and into the lobby. As he stepped outside into the damp winter night, the thought that he would never see any of them again cheered him immensely. He had just shouted goodnight to the concierge, when he heard the steps behind him and felt a hand gripping his arm.
‘Will you help me?’ asked Fishbourne, panting. ‘I need to know now. If we don’t sort this out in the next few days, I’ll lose everything. My reputation, my directorships - ’
Matt shook off Fishbourne’s arm and pushed him away.
‘Dream on! You’ve had your chance, you and people like you, and you’ve failed. You’ve done enough damage to the country. All those people whose lives you ruined are waking up. The party’s over, Justin, you’re on the way out.’
The next morning Matt handed in his notice. One week later, practical formalities completed, he said a final goodbye to his boss Alan Booth, CEO of the agency. Matt began explaining his ideas for setting up a new movement, but Alan clearly wasn’t interested. Like most people in the PR business, Alan existed in a kind of ethical no-mans-land, where questions of moral principle were considered bad form. They shook hands and Matt left the office.
As he crossed Westminster Bridge on his way to Waterloo, to catch the train out to West London, he looked across at the Houses of Parliament. Through the drizzle, he could see the flag of St George flying from the top of the Victoria Tower, and the canvas awnings over the riverside terrace – green stripes for the Commons, red for the Lords. He thought of all the times he had sat there happily with MPs and peers, joshing and schmoozing, laughing at their jokes, while discreetly pressing the case of his client companies and dubious foreign governments.
For years the comfortable, easymoney world of PR had suited him perfectly. The pickings were greatest where politics met business – ‘where the river met the sea’, he used to call it. Money for old rope, really, if you were lucky enough. He turned to advantage his apparent modesty and deceptive air of innocence: tall and thin, approaching forty, with his brown wavy hair and square-framed glasses, he dressed smartly but never stood out. He knew when to stay in the shadows, and when to pounce and strike.
Only now, after his vanity had cost him his marriage and the pleasure of playing with his two young children, did he see that it had all been a game, a reality role-playing show. He had allowed himself to be seduced by the glamour, the drink and the parties. Those cheap glory days were nearly over – the markets were jittery and another crash was heading their way. He needed to position himself for when the system collapsed. His aim was to end up on the winning side.
Rob Griffiths was already waiting for him in the Taste of Marrakesh coffee shop, off Putney High Street. His long frame was squeezed on to the bench behind the corner table, amidst the musky smell of apple-flavoured shisha. The older men at the back of the room, all bearded, sucked their hookah pipes through a plume of smoke. Matt noticed that despite the fumes inside and the warm sunshine outside, Rob still wore his old beige raincoat.
They had known each other for some fifteen years, since their early twenties, when they had both played for the Sunday morning football team – Rob in goal and Matt as a roving attacker. Their paths crossed again, and favours were exchanged or traded, when Rob became general secretary of the transport workers union. As well as sharing a breezy outward cynicism, they were each convinced of the need to end rule by the plutocrats and the country’s drift towards a one-party state. Rob’s resources in money and members were vital to Matt’s plans to turn the situation round.
Rob ordered a coffee and Matt a small measure of aniseed-flavoured arak.
‘No second thoughts?’ asked Rob. ‘Do you realise what you’re letting yourself in for? You can still pull out – today’s your last chance.’
Matt gave him a stern look of mock disapproval.
‘I know what I’m doing, and I’m aware of the risks,’ he said. ‘You trade unionists always like to play the hard men. But when things get difficult, you’re often the first to cave in. You’d better deliver what you promised. What have you come up with?’
Rob passed him a USB stick.
‘It’s all in there. Call me if you have any questions. We’ve got three weeks to get organised. The demo’s not going to be like Trump or Iraq, but we should get a decent turnout. Then we can build on our first success. No one suspects anything unusual - we’ve told the police the protest’s about workers’ rights. In the meantime, it’s your job to work on the donors and the media. I’ll look after the rest. Once everyone’s assembled in Trafalgar Square, you can make your speech. It’ll be your moment of glory – thousands will be watching. If the first stage succeeds, we can set up the movement and go on to take the country.’
Rob stopped speaking, looking across the table at Matt.
‘Seriously, why are you doing this?’ Rob asked him. ‘It’s my job to squeeze the rich, yours was to make them even richer. It was your whole life - are you sure you want to leave all that behind? What made you change?’
A flicker of impatience crossed Matt’s face.
‘You’ll have to trust me. If my children ever come back, I want the country to be in better shape than when they left it. I don’t want them to ask me, in twenty years’ time, why I didn’t stand up to the nationalists and the fascists. We can’t let the government get away with all the damage they’re causing.’
Matt took off his glasses and polished them.
‘It’s taken you long enough to come round,’ said Rob. ‘I always said you were too good a person to be a lobbyist.’
‘And I always replied that trade-union
ists weren’t much better.’
‘So a fresh start then. Goodbye to the sleazebags – good for you. We’ll tread carefully and see what happens. How long is it since the children left?’
‘Only a couple of months. Don’t worry, I’ll get over it. Let’s get down to business.’
‘Getting rid of those nationalists won’t be easy,’ said Rob. ‘Don’t forget – our coup may not be bloodless. In this country the establishment always wins.’
CHAPTER TWO
Matt stood on the steps of the Latvian Embassy, a redbrick Edwardian house behind Madame Tussauds, mentally rehearsing his pitch. He had received an unexpected call from Alan two days earlier.
‘Before you disappear, I’ve got one last favour to ask. Go round to the Latvians and see if they need any help – they must be feeling vulnerable. If it works out, we can split the proceeds, and I’ll sort out some crowdfunding for your movement.’
‘That’s very generous,’ Matt had replied. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’
Finding a way of helping Latvia, after the Russian occupation, was not quite mission impossible but certainly a challenge. Even by its own standards, the English government’s equivocation had been pitiful. Matt had worked with the ambassador before and admired her courage. Some additional funding for the movement would also come in useful. With his new project in mind, any way of opposing and embarrassing the government was worth trying: Matt had nothing to lose.
After he had rung the bell, the embassy door opened and a young man in a shiny blue suit led him to the drawing room.
The ambassador sat in one of the two facing armchairs in front of the fireplace. Despite the flickering flames, the room felt cold. Still life paintings of unappetising fruit and vegetables hung sadly on the walls, alongside landscapes showing endless expanses of muddy fields. The upholstery on the sofa appeared worn and threadbare. A bronze bust of a bearded man’s head looked across sternly from a small table under the window on the far side of the room.
Ilze Lukasevica stood up to greet Matt. She was over six foot tall with long brown hair tied messily in a ponytail, and her eyes were bloodshot.