by David Harley
‘You’re making this up. Just because I might disagree with the government on one or two issues, that’s my right - it doesn’t make me a terrorist. You’ve got the wrong man.’
Penfold smiled benevolently.
‘The rules have changed. Since you’re such a champion of democracy, I’m surprised you haven’t noticed. Defending those in need is no longer our priority, quite the opposite in fact. We punish minorities now, whenever they step out of line and start creating trouble. It’s what the vast majority of English people expect from their government. They want to be protected from criminals and terrorists – and foreigners. Why are you doing this, Matt? If you make a full confession, we could probably still salvage the situation. Shall we go for a little walk – it’ll help the digestion.’
‘I’ve got nothing to confess,’ said Matt, sounding too loud, following Penfold towards the sea. Logan walked a few paces behind.
‘What saddens me,’ Penfold began,’ is that we trusted you - we always saw you as one of us. That’s why we made sure your lobbying career was such a glittering success, by giving you privileged access to government information and senior ministers. Surely you didn’t think that you won all those contracts because of your own exceptional abilities? No, Matt, it was because we saw a mutual interest. You did very well out of our unwavering support. Why have you turned against us?’
Matt saw no point in replying. They were walking side-by-side along the beach, each avoiding any eye contact. The attempt to needle him had been a little too obvious. He fixed his gaze on the silhouette of Bognor Regis pier protruding into the sea two or three miles ahead.
‘I genuinely want to help,’ Penfold went on. ‘We can all take a wrong turning in our lives. The ultimate test of any man’s integrity is to be able to recognise his own mistakes. Tell me everything, and we can still sort this out.’
He pointed to an old wooden bench at the foot of a nearby dune. They clambered up the sand and sat down. Looking around, Matt saw no sign of Logan.
‘What makes you think I’m a threat? It doesn’t make sense,’ he said. ‘Why are you making all this fuss?’
‘It’s time you dropped that air of false innocence – you’re not fooling anyone. You’ve got more influence than you realise – you know too many people and you understand how the system operates. That makes you a potential threat. The prime minister believes that if our country is to survive, it has to be united. Those who stand in his way must be neutralised. No exceptions.’
‘You make it sound very dramatic,’ said Matt. ‘Suppose I don’t take your advice – what would happen than?
Penfold narrowed his eyes and scanned the sea, as if searching for a rare bird or a school of dolphins.
‘That would be unfortunate. We hardly ever use physical violence nowadays – there are so many other ways we can destroy people’s lives. Empty all your bank accounts, drop some bacteria into your weekly shop, plaster nasty-looking photos all over the Internet … the possibilities are endless. We operate in Australia too. I suggest you disappear, take a few months off, go and see the children. We can even help with the airfare. You’ll come back feeling a whole lot better.’
Matt felt his stomach tighten. He got up from the bench and stood in front of Penfold, looking down on him with a mixture of pity and contempt.
‘You’ve also got a choice - we all do,’ said Matt. ‘Can’t you see what’s really happening to our country, away from the rarefied groupthink of Downing Street? Propping up a failed state isn’t being loyal to your country, quite the opposite. While the country’s falling apart and the economy’s collapsing, Crouch’s only concern is staying in power – and protecting his fortune. The people have seen through him, they’re demanding change, and I’m on their side. If I was you, I’d get out before it’s too late.’
Penfold stood up, brushing some imaginary sand off his trousers.
‘You’re making a terrible mistake, and it’s all so unnecessary,’ he said. ‘If you don’t pull back, you’re finished. Don’t underestimate the consequences for you and your family. Wherever you go, we’ll be watching your every move. We can make you suffer in ways you’ve never dreamed of. You’ll soon find out the real meaning of pain. We can get inside your head and stay there until you scream to be released. You’ve had your chance and you’ve turned it down – you’re in a different category now. You’d better make your own way home.’
Matt was no longer listening to Penfold’s cheap histrionics. A dark raincloud scudded across the sky, blotting out the sun, and he shuddered at the sudden drop in temperature. He strode off along the beach in the direction of Bognor Regis, hoping to get there before the downpour, and looking forward to catching the first train home.
‘I’ve spoken to him, Prime Minister. He got the message. I don’t expect him to give us any more trouble.’
‘Keep him under surveillance all the same. Lay off for a couple of weeks, until he feels secure again. Then send him a little reminder. Let Griffiths know what we’ve decided.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
Entering the warm fug of the White Swan was like stumbling across a mountain refuge in a blizzard. Relief swept all over him. Matt stood in the doorway and took in the scene: everything was in its usual place – the dark wooden chairs and tables, the pile of logs in the grate, the pub dog asleep under the coat-stand. After waving at Dexter the landlord, he looked over at their usual table in the corner, where he saw Rob deep in conversation with a young woman with short black hair. They hadn’t yet noticed him. He wasn’t too pleased at the thought of having to talk to someone he’d never met before.
The slow train back had stopped at every station. In his carriage, every seat was taken. He observed the other passengers - young and old, smart and shabby, sad and cheerful – and wondered who they were. There was no chance he was already being followed, but he should stay alert. He remembered the poster they used to put in buses: “Transport police officers are easy to recognise. They look like everyone else.” Extra vigilance would doubtless soon become second nature.
He faced the danger head on. When he got home to his flat, he changed all the passwords on his computer, smartphone and bank accounts, and arranged for a locksmith to come round the following day to change the locks on the front door and windows. Even though these precautions wouldn’t stop anyone determined to break in, they helped him to believe he still had some control over his life. His thoughts went back to the deserted beach, the noiseless waves, and the oily monotone of Penfold’s voice, dripping with malice and evil intent.
He needed to know that Sophie and Jack were safe, and no one had tried to pick them up from school or frighten or molest them. She wouldn’t thank him for it, but he would never forgive himself if something had happened to them, so he rang Jenny immediately. She replied tersely … didn’t he realise it was late and she was busy and could he please call on Sundays as they had agreed … yes, yes, the children were fine …no, nothing unusual. The line went dead.
Nothing seemed to have changed inside the flat. His limited number of personal possessions – photos of the children, a few books – mainly historical biographies, his collection of glass birds on the shelves in the alcove by the fireplace – were all where he had left them. He peered nervously in all the cupboards, under his bed and even in the fridge, but saw no signs of any intrusion. Thank goodness he was meeting up with Rob later for a drink.
Matt walked over to where the others were seated. They both looked up and greeted him warmly, the woman with an expression of cheerful curiosity.
‘Meet Sam,’ said Rob. ‘I’ve asked her to come and work for us - if you agree, of course. I know her from her time as a press officer in the union. She can handle the media for us, and help you organise your life. I’ll get some drinks, and you can get to know each other.’
Matt sat down opposite Sam. She was small and slight, with black curly hair and piercing blue eyes. She gave off a freshness and directness that threw him off balance. He had
come for a quiet pint - he didn’t want anyone to organise his life, although he could do with some help in sharing his workload.
He studied the blackboard over Sam’s shoulder with the day’s specials. Then he glanced around the room, to see if there was anyone there he knew and hadn’t noticed.
‘Rob gave me an idea of what you’re planning,’ she said. ‘I’d really like to contribute. What sort of person are you looking for?’
Matt turned his head to face her. Again, he felt the rush of her enthusiasm. He didn’t have a ready-made job description in mind. If Rob vouched for her, he had to rely on his judgement. He took it as given that she could perform the basic tasks required - writing press statements, monitoring social media, helping to define messages and holding the line under siege. More importantly, how would they fit together? Would she be loyal?
‘How much has Rob already told you?’ he asked.
‘That you’re setting up a new political movement to overthrow the government. First of all, people join together in their local communities, to campaign on local issues, and then the movement builds upwards and outwards to take power nationally. If all goes well - that’s the plan anyway. You’ve got a lot to do and not much time.’
It was a reasonable summary of the situation. This time he looked at her straight in the eye, in a not unfriendly way, but insistently.
‘Why do you want to get involved? You may be putting your life in danger – are you sure you’re ready for this?’
She returned his gaze, unwavering.
‘Because I support what you’re trying to do,’ she said. ‘I understand the risks, and I’m capable of making up my own mind. If you take me on, we’ll have plenty of time to talk about what brought me here. In the meantime, you’ll have to trust me. There’s one thing I’d ask from you.’
‘What’s that?’
‘No patronising. Ever. ’
Matt raised an eyebrow.
‘I didn’t then and I never will.’
‘So we have a deal?’
As Rob arrived with the drinks, Matt mouthed “yes” and he and Sam both smiled.
‘Have you sorted everything out?’ said Rob. ‘She’s the hardest working press officer I’ve ever met – ’
‘Not exactly the greatest compliment I’ve received in my life,’ said Sam. ‘But then with Rob, you have to take what you can get. He’s a miserable bastard, haven’t you noticed?’
‘Don’t I know it,’ said Matt.
The three of them clinked glasses.
‘Now down to work,’ said Matt. ‘I suggest Sam starts immediately. We’ve got just over a week to tell the country who we are and what we stand for. Sam, you and I will come up with some key messages. Rob, you’ll keep us posted on the likely numbers of participants. The first time is bound to be difficult. We need a name and some brand recognition - how about the Save Our Country Alliance?’
‘I can live with that,’ said Sam. Rob nodded his agreement. With the minimum of fanfare, SOCA was born.
Matt offered to buy another round, but Sam said she’d better not and had to get home. She and Matt exchanged numbers and agreed to contact each other the next day.
‘Sam seems very smart,’ said Matt, after she’d left, as he brought back a pint for Rob and a double malt for himself. ‘Thanks for the introduction.’
‘You won’t be disappointed. How was your trip to the coast?’
Matt stopped for a moment before replying, momentarily distracted.
‘I was interrogated by a man I used to know from the security services. He claimed they knew about us, but I find that hard to believe. Now tell me what we should do after the demonstration, assuming it goes off well. How do we stay one step ahead of Crouch and the government in the weeks ahead? How can we take them by surprise?’
Before going to bed, after two stiff malts, Matt had a last look at his phone. There was a message on his voicemail from an unknown number. She didn’t have to give her name – he immediately recognised Sam’s husky voice.
‘We need to organise a meeting to launch SOCA. I thought we’d do it the evening before Trafalgar Square. I’ll try and bring in a few hundred people from all over the country. Leave it to me.’
Impressive. She had made a good start.
A question was gnawing at the back of his mind. He was sure he hadn’t told Rob he was going to the coast.
Matt let out a long sigh. He put the bottle back in the cupboard, and ten minutes later he was asleep.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Martha Hunt was being particularly abstruse and holier-then-thou. She had only been in the prime minister’s office for ten minutes, and she was already getting on Crouch’s nerves. His back was playing up again. When he’d finished with Hunt, he would ask Valentina to give him a massage,
‘Let me try once more to explain,’ he said. ‘I want to teach these people a lesson. We need to show the public we mean business. Preferably no fatalities, but baton charges, rubber bullets, Taser guns – all that’s fine. Is that clear now?’
‘With respect, Prime Minister, …’
Whenever he heard those four words, he knew he was about to be told the exact opposite of what he wanted to hear.
‘…experience over the years has shown that using excessive force against political dissidents, while occasionally producing the desired result on the day, may prove counter-productive in the longer term, by creating an ideological underclass bent on undermining the institutions of a free democracy such as ours.’
‘Did you learn that nonsense at the course you did at Hendon? They need to update the manual. I see the Met have got you round their little finger as they did with your predecessors. It’s all empty theory, Martha. It’s got nothing to do with the reality of the world we live in.’
‘It’s also contrary to established procedure, and possibly illegal, to decide in advance on the degree of force to be used at a peaceful protest,’ the home secretary replied. ‘We’d get crucified in the press and in the courts if anyone found out. We only use extreme measures if the demonstration gets out of control. Which we have no reason to believe will happen in this case. I’m only trying to protect you, Prime Minister. You’d be the first to complain, and rightly so, if I gave you erroneous advice. ’
‘Trying to protect me! Heaven forbid!’ Crouch exclaimed.
Hunt was beyond belief. If he’d written her character into a work of fiction, no one would have taken it seriously.
He’d rarely met anyone so stubborn. So smug with it, as if she had a monopoly of virtue – which admittedly wasn’t difficult given the current membership of the cabinet. She was so obsessed with doing everything by the book that he wondered if she didn’t positively enjoy the rare occasions when he countermanded her. People were strange.
He slowly counted to ten in order to regain his composure and rediscover his inner peace. Perhaps it was time he played the flattery card.
‘Martha, I’ve told you before how much I appreciate the fantastic job you’re doing for my government. They say the Home Office is a graveyard of political reputations. In your case, it’s the exact opposite: the longer you stay there, the more your reputation burns brightly, and the whole of Whitehall looks up to you for your diligence and vast experience.’
She was tapping her right foot, impervious and inscrutable. Oh well, at least he’d made an attempt to appeal to her softer side. Perhaps next time he’d try flicking her fanny with a feather duster – he quickly corrected himself. Anyway, it would probably produce the same result.
‘You’re absolutely right to point out the dangers implicit in transgressing the rule of law and the proper procedures. That’s an important part of your responsibilities. My job is to decide what’s best for the country, after weighing up the legal considerations and the political imperatives. Do we agree so far?’
Hunt nodded her assent, doubtless wondering where this was leading.
‘Now what do we see in this particular case? What are the options before me
, in deciding what’s best for the country? It’s quite simple, Home Secretary: next Saturday, several thousand trade unionists and extremists are holding a demonstration in the very centre of London, to shout abuse at you and me and incite revolt against the state. We know from our – sorry, your – intelligence that this is merely the first step in an orchestrated campaign to overthrow our democratically elected government.’
‘Do we just stand by, and let them get on with it? Do we give their leader Mr Barker a free ride to create havoc and anarchy in our towns and villages?’
‘Of course not, Prime Minister.’
‘I’m glad we understand each other. This is what we’ll do, Home Secretary. You’ll tell the Met to show no mercy. We’ve got to stamp out this pathetic little movement before it has time to grow. Let the demonstrators listen to their leaders’ boring speeches, have the police – the friendly bobbies – mingle with the crowd, putting them at their ease. Then when Barker comes on the podium, the police draw their truncheons and charge. No messing about. When this is over, I want to see pictures of bodies lying on the ground in the middle of Trafalgar Square covered in blood. Those images will go round the word, sending an unmistakeable message about who’s running this country, and how we deal with those who question our values. That’s what’s best for the nation, Home Secretary, and that’s what we’re going to do. I expect you to inform the cabinet tomorrow. We’ve nothing more to discuss.’
Martha Hunt laboriously gathered up her pile of files and left the room, shoulders hunched, her heels clicking on the parquet floor.
Crouch switched on the intercom.
‘Did you get that, Penfold?’
‘Every word, Prime Minister. Couldn’t have been clearer. I’ll have a word with the Metropolitan Commissioner. He’ll understand perfectly.’
CHAPTER NINE
The meeting to launch the Alliance the previous evening had attracted hundreds of people from all over the country. Over fifty thousand were now following Matt on Twitter. All in seven days, and everyone committed to support SOCA and fight for change.