Sidetracked

by David Harley

  Despite his protestations to himself that Jenny no longer meant anything to him, after particularly stressful days – or a few malts too many - she regularly popped up in his head in the middle of the night. As if to tease him, she always had on the emerald green dress that she had worn the night they decided to end it all.

  In the midst of his troubled, muddled dreams, her image shone a harsh and glaring light. Over and over again, she mercilessly recalled their honeymoon in Italy, throwing the full works at him in a fast-shaking kaleidoscope of disjointed yet vivid snatches of long-buried memories – when they took the boat out in the middle of the night, diving off high cliffs, swimming out to hidden caves by the light of the moon, the sun and the light on the warm cobalt-blue sea, the hidden path where they clambered down to their secret bay.

  After nights like this, his mind felt sliced up. Matt would wake drenched in sweat, vaguely aware from the ache in his head that his subconscious had taken a hard pummelling. Bleary-eyed, he would stumble to the bathroom, still chased at the back of his mind by the mocking vision in the emerald dress, who never made it clear if she wanted him back or to make him suffer. To his relief, as each week went by, these nocturnal visits from Jenny became less frequent. He would soon get over her, once and for all. The harder he worked, the further she receded.

  He didn’t realise until later the danger that laid in the other kind of day, the ones that held not the slightest trace of melancholy or worry, when the world around him positively glowed with promise. Rob had spotted the warning signs.

  ‘Don’t get ahead of yourself,’ Rob told him. ‘This is just the start. Focus on the work, not on the prize.’

  These were the days when Matt felt euphoric and intoxicated by his project. He knew he shouldn’t let it go to his head, but still … he had no idea what alchemy or rare conjuncture of stars had brought him, of all people, to this place at this time. He heard the warning voices, but could no longer avoid that clash with destiny… don’t get above yourself, too full of yourself, keep your feet on the ground, organise, organise, build a trustworthy praetorian guard, you can’t do it alone, but you can do it … He could feel the mounting mix of personal pride and faith in the cause starting to prey on his powers of reason, but he couldn’t resist the excitement. Already there were times when indisputably nothing else mattered.

  He was now working from early morning to midnight every day, preparing the official launch of the movement with Rob, as the date of the planned demonstration in Trafalgar Square drew closer. There were times late at night in the flat, immersed in charts and spreadsheets, media grids and bank statements, when he rubbed his eyes and shook his head and marvelled at the sheer improbability of what they were doing. Did they seriously believe they had a chance of making this work? Yet the first results showed there was a mass of potential support to be tapped: Alan’s crowdfunding had brought in sizeable donations; people from different walks of life had responded positively to Rob’s targeted online appeal for ‘Help to save our country.’ They included trade unions of course, and contacts from Matt’s years in government relations, but also students, faith organisations and charities, a few enlightened business leaders, and a new group calling itself ‘Soldiers For Democracy’. It was as though the country was slowly waking up after a long, drugged sleep and starting to feel hungry. Would those pledges of support turn into practical action when the crunch came? The governing class’s reaction would be brutal, and he and Rob would be in the front line. Their disparate support base would need strong leadership. Matt was impatient for the action to begin.

  Matt’s faith in the justice of the cause they were fighting for never wavered. He shared the classic progressive analysis that one-third of the population suffered from poverty and oppression. Millions of people all over the country had seen their lives wrecked by the nationalist government and their repressive policies. As soon as his campaign kicked off, he would visit the regions worst affected – the North East, the eastern coastal regions, the many pockets of urban deprivation in towns and cities all over England - and listen to the people who suffered and struggled – however much they might not want to admit it. People who were paid a pittance for working long hours with no job security, who relied on public services which had been decimated, young people who had no prospect of ever buying their own home, communities where infant mortality and life expectancy were the worst in Western Europe. At first they had believed the nationalists’ cynical promises of a better future based on fantasy economics and fabricated figures, and responded to the whipping up of xenophobia and prejudice, dressed up as an appeal to national pride. Now they knew they had been duped.

  One day Rob put it to him that even if all that were true, liberal values and good intentions would not be enough to defeat the enemy.

  ‘Once our campaign gets under way, the first reaction of the very people we want to help will be to tell us bluntly where to go. Precisely because they’ve been so screwed, they’ll treat any new political movement with deep suspicion. They’ll think we’re just the same as all the others. They’ve had enough of being patronised.’

  He knew that Rob was right – the old idealism was no longer a match for the new populism. He would need all his former lobbyist’s combination of low cunning and emotional intelligence to put together a set of radical, practicable policies that resonated with the people’s hopes and needs, and to convince them to stand up the nationalists.

  While in London’s moneyed mews and terraces the elites continued to enjoy their life of plenty, across the rest of the country nothing worked. Food shortages and power cuts were commonplace. Schools were full to bursting point, hospitals closing, railways and roads no longer maintained. The country - or what was left of it, since Scotland and Northern Ireland had decided to go their own way, and Wales still hadn’t made up its mind - was edging towards a bloody crossroads. There wasn’t much time left.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The Right Honourable James Maxwell Crouch, Prime Minister of England and First Lord of the Treasury, often complained to his closest advisers that people outside government didn’t begin to understand the complexity of running the country. Every time he was called upon to take a decision, he had to weigh up a series of complex and competing considerations, including the national interest, the effect on his poll ratings, the cost, and how it would play in the media; as well as the assessment of the whips, the likely reaction of the party, how much support the decision would receive in cabinet, whether or not it was a manifesto commitment from the last general election or might figure in the next one, and – a factor to which Crouch attached particular importance - whether it would screw his enemies, above all those in his own party.

  If he thought too hard about all these criteria, he’d never take any decisions at all. Fortunately, Crouch’s political instincts never failed him. He had that special quality bestowed only on the greatest political leaders: when faced with a difficult problem, he always knew the right thing to do. He allowed no disagreement or dissent around the cabinet table. Questioning his views and decisions clogged up the process of government and was a waste of time, for Crouch had never been known to change his mind.

  So when the home secretary, the prim and conscientious Martha Hunt, had seemed to balk at Crouch’s instruction to crack down on their political opponents, the prime minister had not been amused. As she rambled on about civil rights and freedom of expression and even the United Nations Charter, Crouch had become increasingly impatient.

  ‘Home Secretary, your job is to keep the country safe, not run an NGO,’ he told her. ‘We live in troubled times, and the people are rightly looking to us for firm leadership. If they feel we’re getting soft, they won’t vote for us.’

  ‘With respect, Prime Minister – ’

  Crouch cut her off.

  ‘There’s no point, I know what you’re going to say. I’ve heard it all before. You believe it’s your duty to raise obscure points of law and refer to our international
obligations. All that was fine when we didn’t have rioting in the streets and anarchist movements funded by the Russians who are hell-bent on bringing down the government. Given the current unrest, our objective is to hunt down every potential terrorist and enemy of the state, and show no mercy. If you have to cut a few corners, don’t worry, you’ll have my full backing. Is that clear?’

  Heads nodded around the cabinet table.

  ‘Very well said, Prime Minister,’ whispered Sir Christopher Jenks, the cabinet secretary, covering his mouth with his hand. Jenks always sat on Crouch’s right at these meetings and was unfailingly loyal – or sycophantic, depending on one’s point of view. At the very least, he knew which side his bread was buttered.

  ‘Understood, Prime Minister,’ said Hunt, a little flushed. She gathered her papers together in a tidy pile and laid her hands flat on the table in front of her.

  ‘Before you disappear,’ said Crouch, ‘why don’t you tell us what sort of people are on your list. Are they just the usual suspects – a fair sprinkling of radical clerics and clapped-out trots, I suppose – or are there any new categories we ought to know about?’

  The home secretary cleared her throat.

  ‘I don’t know if that would be wholly appropriate. Could it wait until – ’

  ‘Just get on with it. The cabinet should know the kind of people we’re dealing with.’

  ‘As you wish. There’s been one disturbing new development. Our services have picked up some traffic coming from the union leader Rob Griffiths.’

  ‘That’s not unusual – I thought he was one of ours.’

  Hunt pursed her lips.

  ‘We’re not supposed to know that, Prime Minister. We believe that Mr Griffiths is no longer entirely reliable. What’s more, he seems to have a surprising new friend.’

  ‘Who is?’

  ‘Matt Barker, the lobbyist. We have evidence to suggest he may be changing sides. Some of you may know him socially.’

  Martha Hunt gave the foreign secretary a trenchant look.

  The prime minister laughed.

  ‘Is that the best you can come up with? I don’t know him well, but I always thought Matt Barker was quite reasonable… a bit earnest and full of himself, but hardly likely to join the revolution. If there’s the slightest doubt, make sure they give him the full treatment. The meeting’s closed.’

  As the members of the cabinet shuffled out of the room, Crouch thought he saw the foreign secretary wink at Martha Hunt.

  Well, there’s an unlikely alliance, he thought. I’ll have Jenks intercept a few more phones. The trouble with this job is you can never relax.

  CHAPTER SIX

  ‘Delightful spot, isn’t it?’ said Giles Penfold, tossing the lettuce and tomato salad.

  They were sitting outside the bungalow, under a faded yellow parasol, on a small decking area. Having consulted Google Maps on the way down, Matt knew that the derelict village of Pagham Beach was five miles west of Bognor Regis.

  ‘It’s quite a suntrap in the summer,’ Penfold went on. ‘So peaceful. Helps to get things back in perspective. Would you care for some more vinaigrette?’

  Although he was still wondering what he was doing there, Matt had to admit it was a pleasant scene. In normal circumstances, he would have half closed his eyes and given himself over to the sensation of the breeze in his face and the sound of the sea. He might have even taken a stroll over the shingle and put a toe in the water. Not today.

  Their end of the beach was deserted. The houses next to Penfold’s – although Matt doubted he was the real owner – were empty and boarded up.

  ‘They’ve suffered terribly round here from coastal erosion,’ Penfold explained. ‘Nobody comes any more, and the houses are worth nothing. The government’s refused to put up any money for defences, which sounds cruel but I suppose it’s understandable. Sooner or later there’ll be one of those storm surges combined with a spring tide, and there’ll be nothing left of the place. Then they can turn it into a nature reserve. At least, until that happens, we’ve got the beach to ourselves and we won’t be disturbed.’

  A man with a shaven head and a gold chain round his neck stuck his head out of the kitchen window behind them. After picking Matt up from the station in Bognor, he had prepared their lunch.

  ‘Everything in order, sir?’ he asked.

  ‘Thanks, Logan. Delicious salad,’ Penfold replied. ‘I’ll give you a shout if we need anything.’

  They ate in silence for a few minutes. The whole place - the view that stretched out for miles in front of them, the abandoned houses on each side with their chipped paint and broken windows, the makeshift terrace where they were sitting – seemed cut off from everyday life. Barely twenty yards away, the sea lapped noiselessly on the shore. Every so often a few rays of weak sunshine would pierce the overcast sky and then disappear again. Just below the horizon, Matt could pick out the spindly masts of wind farms through the haze. In the middle distance, two giant container ships, one behind the other, were sailing imperiously towards Portsmouth, their stately progress barely perceptible. At the water’s edge a small crowd of seagulls were arguing loudly over a rotten fish.

  ‘Thank you for coming all this way,’ said Penfold. ‘I presume you didn’t tell anybody? Let’s have some fruit.’

  ‘You made it clear I didn’t have much choice. Nobody knows I’m here.’

  Logan came out to clear away the plates, and laid two bowls of fruit salad on the table, with a jug of cream.

  ‘Oh dear, I hope I didn’t sound too rude. I felt it was one of those situations where it’s better to come straight to the point. Your situation’s become rather difficult, and I had to speak to you in person. I’m not sure I can keep them at bay much longer. The good news is there’s still time to save you. Whether you survive depends largely on you.’

  ‘I thought I’d come here to help you, not the other way round.’

  ‘Sorry if I told a little white lie - I couldn’t afford the risk of you turning me down. I knew I could count on your better nature. People like you are too good for this world.’

  Penfold picked up a large scallop shell and lobbed it towards the seagulls who, after flapping their wings and squawking their annoyance, went on pecking the fish.

  He had known at once that the call the previous day, so soon after Watson’s warning, could hardly be a coincidence.

  Matt had known Giles Penfold for several years as a senior civil servant in the Home Office, with the ostensible responsibility of facilitating visas for prospective investors from China and the Gulf States in London’s commercial property market. Some of those high net worth individuals had been Matt’s clients. Penfold had always been helpful and efficient, if rather taciturn, with a veneer of excessive politeness that Matt found both amusing and vaguely unsettling. He had occasionally wondered what Penfold did when he wasn’t overseeing visa applications, but asked no questions.

  ‘I know this may sound strange,’ Penfold had begun. ‘I’ve got a new job - I’m working at Number Ten - and I urgently need your advice. I didn’t know who else to turn to. I need to speak to you in person.’

  Matt felt cornered.

  ‘How could I possibly help? We barely know each other.’

  ‘I’ll explain once we meet. I know your political skills, and what’s more, you’ve got the contacts. We always got on so well when we worked together, don’t you think? I’ve got a little place on the West Sussex coast – could you make it for lunch tomorrow?’

  ‘This is a bit sudden – ’

  ‘Trust me, Matthew. I’ll make sure you won’t regret it. There are excellent train connections. Tell me when you’ll arrive in Bognor and I’ll send someone to pick you up.’

  Reluctantly, Matt had accepted the invitation, on the grounds that it was probably better to know the precise nature of his fate before trying to resist it. He was confident that they didn’t have any hard evidence against him, and he could easily out-bluff Penfold.

 
; Penfold pulled his chair forward, closer to the table. He sat up straight and flexed his fingers.

  ‘They say you’ve changed sides. If true, that would be regrettable. I’d be grateful for an explanation. Do help yourself to cream and sugar.’

  Taking his time, Matt poured some cream from the jug over his fruit.

  ‘Nothing’s changed, I assure you,’ said Matt. ‘I’m still the same person you’ve always known. Now we’ve got over that misunderstanding, perhaps you could tell me about your new job – I’m curious.’

  ‘The PM took me on as his security adviser to keep an eye on the home secretary. She sometimes allows her admirable principles to complicate government policy. When she’s too soft, my job is to provide some steel behind the scenes. So I try and gently steer her in the right direction, preferably without her noticing. Let’s get back to why we’re here. I’ve told you what I’m doing; now it’s your turn. Why are you acting against the state?’

  Matt replaced his spoon in his bowl and reached for a glass of water. Penfold’s gaze hardened. Logan came out of the house and stood in the doorway behind them, arms crossed, staring out to sea.

  ‘I’m doing no such thing – ’

  ‘The facts are there, I’m afraid. We’ve intercepted a lot of compromising material recently – your emails and text messages, phone calls and various movements recorded on your Android. You seem to have discovered a new passion for good causes, but we take a rather different view. We’ve already got enough evidence to detain you indefinitely under the counter-terrorism act, although I hope that won’t be necessary.’