by David Harley
Martha Hunt looked him straight in the eye – unusually for her.
‘My understanding was that, given its sensitivity, Number Ten was handling that particular case.’
So prim and up herself - he could have strangled her.
‘Rather than playing the blame game, Home Secretary, the problem we have to deal with are the queues stretching for miles outside the few petrol stations that are still open. By tomorrow the shelves in most supermarkets will be empty. This situation has been going on for over a week, and the negotiations led by the oil companies are going nowhere. If we don’t find a solution in the next forty-eight hours, we’ll have to introduce rationing. Can someone tell me what’s going on?’
Jeremy Burgess looked at his shoes, and Martha Hunt held up the page of a document, studying it intensely. The other ministers seated round the cabinet table looked straight ahead.
‘Come on, be brave. We’re all responsible for this mess. It’s just that somebody must be more responsible than the others, and I’d like that person to have the honesty to own up.’
Eventually Burgess cleared his throat.
‘The problem, Prime Minister, may be that the unions have been non-existent for so long, that nobody knows who’s responsible for them.’
James Crouch was not impressed.
‘That’s an ingenious excuse, I’ll hand it to you. Even if it was true, you wouldn’t be absolved, nor would several other secretaries of state. The problem we face isn’t only about the trade unions: the consequences of the blockade are felt right across government, affecting almost every department - business, naturally, but also energy, transport, security – even health and education.’
‘Could I interrupt you there a moment, Prime Minister?’ said Martha Hunt. ‘I think there’s something you’ve forgotten.’
Fuming, Crouch counted to ten, as slowly as possible.
‘And what might that be?’
‘You know full well, Prime Minister – because I sent you the file several days ago – that Barker’s so-called movement is proving unexpectedly popular. There’s no precedent for the level of support they’ve gained in such a short time. We told you it could quickly turn into a dangerous uprising if it’s not stopped immediately. Frankly, the Home Office is surprised you haven’t acted sooner.’
The icy silence spread all the way round the cabinet table. Hunt was the only one showing the hint of a smile. She must have been waiting a long time for this pathetic moment of satisfaction. Let her enjoy it while it lasted.
Looking around the table, but ignoring Hunt, Crouch gave his reply.
‘We all know Martha’s been under great strain recently, and she has all my sympathy. Now let’s return to the grave challenges facing the country. I want each of you to listen carefully to what I have to say.’
The shuffling of papers ceased and all eyes were on him, showing varying degrees of nervousness.
‘I’ve decided to end the blockade and crush any resistance by sending in the troops.’
His cabinet colleagues looked more horrified than impressed.
‘Don’t look so gloomy. This gives us a great opportunity. I’m surprised none of you has spotted it.’
Martha Hunt looked nervous.
‘You’re not thinking of a reshuffle, I hope, Prime Minister?’
‘Quite the opposite, Martha,’ said Crouch, his voice sounding unusually warm. ‘If we play our cards right, we can stay in power forever. In five minutes you’ll see what I mean. The press is waiting outside for me to make a statement. You’re welcome to watch on the TV in the small drawing room. Now if you’ll excuse me.’
The phalanx of cameras clicked and flashed as the door of Number Ten opened, and James Crouch strode out towards the lectern with the lion and unicorn crest, which stood in the street precisely four metres from the pavement.
Crouch enjoyed the company of journalists. The more deferential and sensible they were, the more he was inclined to give them privileged information. It was basic common sense. Whenever he had a go at the few remaining liberal members of the press corps, the other lobby correspondents would generally take Crouch’s side and laugh at his jokes. Whether or not they were sincere was irrelevant: he had them where he wanted them.
Trying not to look too pleased with himself, Crouch began speaking.
‘Good morning, everyone. Thank you for waiting.’
He held up his watch and looked at it.
‘Five to twelve. Phew … it’s still morning.’
On cue, he heard a few titters from the less hardened hacks.
‘I will now make a short statement.’
Looking serious again, he started reading from the sheaf of paper that was placed in front of him on the lectern.
‘This country faces the most serious threat to its democracy since the Second World War. As a nation whose constitution is based on the rule of law, we cannot allow a small minority to use violent means to prevent our citizens from going about their daily business. The primary duty of the government is to protect its citizens and maintain law and order.’
He paused, looked left and right, and continued.
‘In view of the rapidly deteriorating situation concerning the availability of essential supplies of fuel and food, at its meeting this morning the Cabinet unanimously approved my proposal to send in the troops. The armed forces have been ordered to use whatever means they consider appropriate to restore order to England’s transport, energy and food distribution systems, notably by ending all blockades of oil refineries and fuel depots by midnight tonight.’
The journalists were already frantically typing out and phoning through the story when Crouch held up his hand.
‘I have one more important announcement.’
All eyes - and the TV cameras - were on him once again.
‘Given the grave crisis in which our country finds itself, despite all the essential measures already taken by the government, I believe that further action is indispensable. I have therefore decided to seek a renewed mandate from the people, in order to defend our nation from the extremist and terrorist groups that are attempting, as we speak, to destroy the values we cherish and the very fabric of our society.’
‘Earlier today, I proposed to His Majesty The King the dissolution of Parliament and the calling of a general election in three months’ time. The King graciously agreed, subject to the usual constitutional requirements.’
Ignoring the instantaneous explosion of frenzy and the bombardment of questions, he folded the text of his statement and placed it in his inside jacket pocket. After standing for a moment for the cameras and photographers, with an expression of profound gravity and solemnity etched on his face, James Crouch turned and went back inside Number Ten.
He decided to avoid the inevitable hysteria that must have broken out among his cabinet colleagues in the small drawing room, and asked for a pot of tea to be taken up to the prime minister’s private drawing room. His companion Valentina was out to lunch with a friend, and he had the flat to himself. He looked forward to curling up on the sofa and watching on catch-up, over and over again, the moment of history he had so artfully created. The delicious prospect of untrammelled power, for as long as he wanted. Not bad for a day’s work.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Matt was chopping some vegetables, shortly before Sam was due to come round for supper, when he heard the news on the radio. The troops were on their way to the refineries.
His thoughts went out to the heroic men and women sleeping rough, or if they were lucky in tents, outside Ellesmere Port and the other main refineries. Spring had arrived, but at night the temperature fell to single figures. He pictured the army convoys driving through the night along the motorway, with orders to break the blockade, by force if necessary. The other questions stemming from Crouch’s decision could wait. He phoned Rob.
‘You’re not going to like this, but you’ve got to call off the blockade. Immediately.’
There was silence,
followed by an angry intake of breath.
‘You can’t be serious – there’s no way I can stop them now. The reason Crouch has called an election is because we’ve got him on the run and he’s trying to buy time - can’t you see that? The government’s lost all credibility. We’ve won the greatest trade-union victory in a generation. We can’t just surrender and walk away.’
‘It won’t be a surrender. Crouch is panicking. Your people have been brilliant and they can be proud of what they’ve achieved. You can quote Churchill: “In defeat, defiance. In victory, magnanimity.”’
‘That’s not going to help me much with my members. After all the nights they’ve spent outside in the cold, without any sleep, maintaining this blockade, I’m supposed to say thanks, but it’s all over and by the way, we’ve won nothing.’
‘We can’t run the risk of having people shot and killed by the army. You know that’s true. Tell them they’ve won the first battle in a war that’s only just begun. The next challenge will be to kick out Crouch and the nationalists in the election.’
‘Easier said than done, and I don’t need you to write the script for me. I suppose I haven’t got much choice.’
To Matt’s relief, he could sense that Rob was coming round.
‘I’m glad we agree. Now let’s move on - we’ve got a million things to do and a very tight timetable. I’m calling a meeting for tomorrow morning, in our new campaign office, and I want you to be there. My former boss Alan’s lent us a floor of his company’s premises in Westminster. He said he won’t charge any rent, provided we win the election. We move in tomorrow. Tonight may be your last chance for a long time to get a good night’s sleep – make the most of it.’
‘Okay, you win. I’ll tell our people to lay off. See you in the morning.’
Matt filled a large casserole full of water and placed it on the gas ring. He hoped Sam would appreciate his cooking.
He had asked her round to his flat for a meal, to thank her for looking after him while he’d been recovering from his injuries. She’d been a great support during those difficult days, and he was looking forward to seeing her again. They were comrades-in-arms, and he wanted to show her his gratitude.
When he served up the tagliatelle with meatballs and leeks in a cream sauce, he was amused to see Sam tucking into the pasta with gusto, as if she hadn’t eaten for a week.
‘Delicious,’ said Sam. ‘I’d never seen you as a cook. I must come here more often.’
Matt shrugged off her praise.
‘Really, it was nothing. It’s a very simple dish. Your turn next time,’ Matt replied, pouring her a glass of red wine.
They sat on opposite sides of the small square table in the living room, Sam facing the window and Matt with a view into the kitchen. He had repainted the walls the previous week, and bought a new lampshade that hung over the table, giving off a soft golden glow. He’d even dusted his collection of coloured glass birds that stood among the photos of Sophie and Jack on the shelf above the gas fire.
’Thanks for all your support,’ he went on. ‘I was in a bad way after Trafalgar Square. I don’t know how I’d have got through that time without you. You were very kind and helpful.’
‘Helpful?’ said Sam, frowning, as if turning over the word in her mind. Perhaps she thought it sounded rather cold and formal. That wasn’t what he meant - he hoped he hadn’t offended her.
‘You were a difficult patient,’ Sam went on. ‘Not very obedient. Are you always like that?’
She had this way of cocking her head on one side after she’d asked a question, with a faux-deadpan expression that flickered between ambivalence and mischief.
‘I’m not quite sure what you mean,’ he replied. ‘Anyway, that’s all over now. I’m fully recovered, and looking forward to getting down to work.’
Sam finished her pasta and carefully aligned her knife and fork on the plate. She poured them both another glass of wine.
‘Let’s not talk about work for once,’ said Sam. ‘How did you get into all this? Did you always want to start a revolution?’
He couldn’t be sure, but the serious look on her face seemed sincere.
‘No, I honestly never expected to end up in this situation. When things reached a new low point last year, I felt I had to do something about it. Most of the time I feel there’s some force pushing me forward and there’s no way I can turn back. Fate, I suppose. Not that I would want to change course.’
‘Was the low point political or personal?’
‘A bit of both, I suppose.’
‘You said once you had a wife and two kids, and they’re in Australia?’
Please God, he said to himself. Spare me the interrogation.
‘That’s right. What about you? When did you see the light?’
‘When I met you, of course.’
Matt spluttered into his wine.
‘Only joking.’
She reached across the table and patted his arm.
‘Or half joking. I’ll tell you about me some other time. Anyway, I’m pleased we’re doing this together. I’ll give it my all, I promise you.’
When the meal was over, Matt cleared away the dishes, and rinsed the plates before stacking them in the dishwasher. He was pleased to have asked Sam round, and everything seemed to be going well. He liked the way she was both strong-willed and quizzical. The two of them were on the same wavelength, and their partnership was essential to the success of the project.
He went back into the living room, carrying a tray with two cups of coffee, and they sat together on the sofa. Matt opened his laptop and began to show her the video footage of Crouch’s statement announcing the election.
Sam looked uninterested and unimpressed.
‘I don’t need to see this all over again,’ she said. ‘I know it’s asking a lot, but can’t we forget about politics for a moment. Is there something else we could watch now?’
They agreed on Under The Skin, which they’d both seen before. When the first scary scene came along, Matt put his arm round Sam’s shoulder. She snuggled up and they sat there, watching the screen intently.
All afternoon Matt had tried in vain to work out how he should react to the new situation created by the calling of an early election. That hint of a smirk on Crouch’s face, caught on camera as he turned to go back inside Number Ten, gave Matt hope. In politics, complacency was so often the prelude to downfall, and everything came and went in cycles. The flummery and flattery that came with power had turned Crouch’s head. The country had changed and Crouch hadn’t noticed. His decision would backfire, by people seeing him as yesterday’s man, up himself and out of touch. That was Matt’s gamble.
Of course, he would take nothing for granted. Conventional wisdom would say that no rational person would launch a new political movement, and hope to win seats in Parliament, in the space of only three months. A respectable protest vote if they were lucky, but surely no seats. But these were exceptional times, when conventional wisdom counted for little. The challenge was to make the organisation of the Alliance’s campaign strong enough to swim naturally with the prevailing political tide.
The more he succeeded, the greater the risks. He thought about Penfold, and the phone call enquiring after his health. The message was clear: they had him in their sights. If Matt didn’t back away, hostilities would resume, but this time against the background of an election campaign, played for the highest possible stakes. The forces of the state would be ruthlessly employed, with a single aim: to ensure the continued exercise of power and pursuit of wealth by that part of the governing class that backed Crouch. They would brush aside anyone who stood in their way, without a second thought. They would come for him in the middle of the night, and extract his fingernails or slit his throat if they thought it would make any difference to the result. Without leaving any trace; no one would know. The great democratic celebration of the general election would continue as normal, while under the surface the parties’ surrogates grappl
ed and wrestled in the mud. “The dogs bark, but the caravan moves on.”
It wasn’t about pride. He would never tell anybody this, but he was infused by a sense of mission, bound up with the natural order of things and the cards he had been dealt.
The film was over and the bottle was empty. Matt had paid little attention to Scarlett Johansson’s alien incursions into the back streets of Glasgow, his thoughts veering between his destiny and Sam. He sensed that Sam’s thoughts had also been elsewhere. He could feel himself melting and hardening at the same time.
They watched the final credits roll, not saying anything, until she turned to face him. Her hair stuck up in places and her lips were moist.
When he leaned forward to kiss her, she took hold of both his hands and pushed him gently away.
‘I’ve been thinking about what we were saying before the film, about fate and how we each got into this situation - there’s something important we need to discuss,’ she said.
‘Go on,’ said Matt.
She let go of his hands.
‘What happened today changes everything. Not just for the Alliance, but for you. Surely you realise that?’
He shook his head, not getting it.
‘You have to take him on. Mano a mano. In his seat. It’ll be the perfect platform. You have to stand for parliament in James Crouch’s constituency. The entire country and the whole world will be watching. You even live in the area. You’ll never get another chance like this - go for it.’
‘I’m not sure …’
His words were trailing, but his mind was racing. On the face of it, what she proposed was a suicide mission. But he was up for it. There was no better way of guaranteeing massive media coverage and destabilising Crouch than to stand against him on his home territory. Like all the best ideas, the proposal was so crazy that it might actually work.