by David Harley
‘Would you like me to arrange an accident?’
‘You know I don’t reply to questions like that. I’d like to try a different approach. Give him enough rope and then stand back. Do nothing. Let him feel that everything’s going his way. Send in a few more hecklers for credibility. Given his excessive idealism and lack of experience, his little bubble will probably burst without any help from us. If not, we can move in on his weak point, when he least expects it.’
Penfold’s face beamed.
‘The girl?’
‘Precisely, Penfold. I’m pleased to see that you’re still capable of rational thought – I’ll grant you a temporary stay of execution. Just keep an eye on her for now. I thought she looked very fetching in bed with him last night – I wouldn’t like him to have her all for himself. It’s wonderful what modern technology can do nowadays. Don’t take any action until I say the word. You’d better put Griffiths in the picture.’
‘Understood, Prime Minister.’
Sam listened as Matt expressed all his frustration at the break-in and the damage to his children’s photos. She had come round as soon as he had told her the news.
‘How did they get in? That’s what I want to know,’ said Matt, as much to himself as to Sam. ‘How are we supposed to set up a political movement, if our opponents can walk in and out of my flat whenever the mood takes them? I’ll have to change the locks again, for the second time in a month. How can I lead a party in the general election, if I can’t even be safe in my own home?’
‘It’s not a party, it’s an alliance. But I know what you mean,’ said Sam.
Matt called Rob, but there was no answer and he left a message demanding a full explanation. He wanted somebody to answer a simple question: was he or was he not supposed to be provided with protection? If Rob couldn’t fix the problem through the union, they’d better find a better system, or hire a private company.
Rob eventually rang back. There had been an unfortunate misunderstanding. Round-the-clock protection had been reinstated. Matt waited for an apology, but none came.
He put the torn photos in a large envelope and placed it in the bottom drawer of his desk. He couldn’t bear looking at them. The flat was empty without the children’s smiling faces, and he felt bereft.
Sam took him in her arms and tried to console him, but his mind was elsewhere.
‘That they broke in so easily is bad enough. But that they then started playing stupid mind games with the photos of my children, that’s something I can’t accept. If I find out who did this, I’ll strangle them.’
‘They’re being deliberately provocative. It’s a test to see how you react. Don’t let them get to you – that’s exactly what they want.’
Slowly the tension began to lift. They decided to order an Indian takeaway. As they tucked into the nans and papadams, sitting side by side on the sofa, Sam told him that his first press statement attacking Crouch was circulating all over social and online media, and the reactions were all favourable. Her phone hadn’t stopped ringing all evening. He was already making a name for himself. They couldn’t have hoped for a better start.
He slowly began to push the break-in to the back of his mind. He was sure he had some other photos of the children on his computer. They would soon be back in their usual place on the shelf. The next day would be his first as the official candidate. He would need to appear calm, self-confident and in control.
Although Matt’s first days on the campaign trail began on a wave of enthusiasm, the clash of theory with reality soon produced a brutal shock. In their finely tuned strategy and careful messaging, he and Sam had disregarded two key factors: the people weren’t interested, and they were afraid. The reactions on the street and on the doorstep were mostly friendly and polite, and Matt benefited at first from having a certain curiosity value. His principal opponent was less James Crouch than generalised apathy, mixed with fear and a desire to stay out of trouble. The majority of people they met were not so much hostile to politicians as profoundly indifferent. They had given up on the political class a long time ago. Besides, what was the point of being seen consorting with a would-be politician who came from nowhere, had no chance of being elected, and spent his time attacking the prime minister and local MP?
On the first Saturday morning since they had started campaigning, Matt and Sam were distributing flyers outside the Farmers’ Market. As the rain came down in a slow drizzle and gave no sign of stopping, Matt estimated that their success rate in persuading people to take their material was about one in twenty.
‘What’s that about?’ asked an elderly lady. ‘More free offers?’
Matt did his best to look cheerful.
‘We’re a new political movement,’ he said. ‘I’m your candidate in the general election.’
The woman looked as though she felt moderately sorry for Matt, but realising there was nothing she could do to help someone in his condition, decided to move on quickly without another word.
‘Do you want another five years of James Crouch, and his corrupt government?’ Matt shouted after her.
She didn’t look back. Other people in the street looked at Matt with incredulity. A smartly dressed man in a suit and carrying a briefcase crossed the road and began to harangue him.
‘Who do you think you are?’ he said. ‘We don’t attack the prime minister in public in this country. You should show a bit more respect. We live in a democracy, in case you hadn’t noticed.’
A thick-set young man hurried by, carrying three wooden boxes of vegetables stacked on top of each other.
‘What’s the point in voting? Nothing ever changes,’ he said. ‘Crouch is the best of a bad bunch. Better the devil you know, I say.’
The more time went by, the less confident Matt felt that he would ever break through this point-blank refusal to challenge or even question the status quo and the sitting MP. The proud island race had lost its pride. Fear and grovelling submission had taken over instead.
‘It’s worse than indifference,’ said Matt to Sam, a few days later.
They were sitting in a coffee shop, at the end of a long and unproductive day spend knocking on doors and leafleting in rundown housing estates on the edge of the constituency. In the last place they had visited, the lifts didn’t work, and they had to climb up and down ten flights of stairs with no lighting and a strong smell of urine and chip-fat. In roughly one flat in three, they had been greeted with obscenities. One middle-aged man in his underpants had shouted that he was a nationalist and proud of it, before threatening Matt with a knife.
‘It’s what Rob warned me about when we first began. The very people that we’re trying the hardest to help – the less well-off, the long-term unemployed, those dependent on benefits – are the least pleased to see us. As soon as they smell politics or politicians, they either run a mile or get abusive. They don’t remotely see politics as a way of improving their lives. They’ve got other ways of doing that, often illegal. They see us as completely irrelevant. It’s going to be hard work to make them change their minds.’
Sam tilted her head on one side and looked at him with a mixture of apparent affection and irony, as though she took pleasure in having to humour him in his periodic bouts of pessimism.
‘Surely you knew that already?’ said Sam. ‘Getting soaked in the rain and spat at on the doorstep goes with the job, just as much as making inspiring speeches and dreaming up clever policies. They’re not going to give you their trust overnight – you have to work for it. They’ve been screwed over and over again by the system. Don’t blame them for not welcoming you with open arms. You have to show patience and understanding – hang your head in humility on behalf of the political class and take whatever they throw at you. You owe these people an apology, they owe you nothing. They’re not under any obligation to take you on trust – it’s the other way round. Why should they believe your airy-fairy promises? You’ve got to prove to them that you understand their concerns, and you’re capab
le of changing things for the better. Keep plugging away, and they’ll eventually start to listen. Slowly the mood will start to change, and some may even consider voting for you. In the end you’ll see it’s all been worthwhile. There’s no other way.’
Matt knew she was right. He needed to focus more on specific local issues and less on general principles and finely honed policies. Perhaps Ahmed or Bernadette could come up with some ideas on how to put this shift into practice. If they didn’t find a way quickly to relaunch the campaign, he would have to scale down his expectations.
The next day, the West Thameside News published the first opinion poll on voting intentions in the constituency. Matt’s candidature was mentioned in a footnote as too recent to figure. James Crouch, who had always benefited from the paper’s unswerving support, seemed unaffected by the bedrock of apathy encountered by Matt as he forged ahead of all the mainstream candidates. It was hardly surprising, given Crouch’s strong name recognition and local links – and his hold over the media and mafia band of close supporters. His people were everywhere, watching and reporting back. There were still six weeks to go, but Crouch was twenty points in front, and looked unstoppable.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
‘There are some people I’d like you to meet,’ said Ahmed to Matt. ‘Twenty families on the Hancock Grove estate are threatened with eviction. They need our help – and I think you’ll see it’s a good issue.’
Matt immediately agreed, and the next day he found himself sitting in the Mukherjee family’s living room with the other members of the residents’ delegation. They didn’t have enough chairs to go round, so Ahmed stood against the wall, chatting to the younger members of the families present.
The leader of the group was Harish Mukherjee, a small, nervous-looking Bengali in his early sixties. He stood up and explained their concerns. Matt already knew about the problem, but let him have his say.
‘Now they’ve got the council’s authorisation to develop the site for luxury houses and flats, the developers say they’ll put up our rent by four or five times. We’ve been told that, legally, they’re entitled to do this, and there’s nothing we can do.’
‘I’m not so sure about that,’ said Matt. ‘They should never have been allowed to build on land designated for social housing. It’s yet another sordid affair involving Crouch, the council leader and their developer friends. They break all the rules, share the proceeds, and no one dares lift a finger against them. I think you’ve got a good case.’
‘I’m not a lawyer,’ said Harish, ‘but I know my neighbours. There are twenty families in Hancock Grove, mainly Asians and workers of various nationalities – I prefer not to call them migrant workers, the term has lost its true meaning in recent years. After all, we’re all migrants in one way or another, and we’re all workers if we have the chance.’
Harish’s wife, who was standing next to him in an orange sari and was even smaller than he was, tugged at his sleeve and told him to get on with it.
‘We’re all decent, hard-working people in Hancock Grove – except one or two hotheads in my wife Nita’s family.’
On cue, Nita shook her head and wagged a finger in protest against this disgraceful slur.
‘But we’re not well off,’ Harish went on, looking serious now. ‘We can’t afford to pay this massive increase in rent. So they’ll wait until we can’t pay any more and then they’ll turf us out. What can we do to stop this? Can you help us?’
Matt wanted to help, but only if he was sure that he could obtain results. He didn’t want to make any promises he couldn’t later fulfil. All eyes were on him, waiting for his reply.
Nita took out a handkerchief from the folds of her sari.
‘Can you imagine what it’s like, Mr Barker, to be thrown out in the street through no fault of your own?’ she said. ‘How do we explain to our children and grandchildren that they have to leave their friends and their school and start their lives all over again? Help us, I beg you.’
Giving a little stamp of his foot, Harish turned to his wife.
‘Get a hold of yourself. It’s no use. I told you he would be no different than the others. Well, Mr Barker?’
Nita stared at the floor, dabbing her eyes.
Matt saw Ahmed looking at him. He smiled back – surely Ahmed didn’t doubt his intentions – and got up from his chair, taking up position next to Harish.
‘Of course, I’ll help you. This is what we do in the Save Our Country Alliance – we help each other out. Tomorrow we’ll deliver an ultimatum to Mr Crouch in the form of a public letter: either he condemns the council decision and publicly tells them to annul the authorisation, or we’ll bring a legal action against the council. This isn’t a threat, it’s a statement of fact. Don’t worry, we’ll obtain the necessary funds for the legal proceedings if Crouch’s cronies refuse to back down. I promise I’ll do everything possible to ensure no one is evicted.’
As he finished speaking, he saw the pride in Ahmed’s face. He and Harish shook hands, and Matt accepted Nita’s offer of a slice of her butter cake.
He had meant what he said. He would do everything in his power to have the decision overturned. Twenty families were being thrown out into the street and made homeless, while at the same time a group of nameless sharks were making millions in profit. Forcing those currently in power to back down would send a powerful message throughout the constituency.
After telling Ahmed to take some photos of the residents and their children, he called Sam.
‘I want to milk this story for all it’s worth. It’s a small but powerful symbol of everything that’s wrong and pernicious about Crouch’s system of government – the poor and defenceless being pushed out to make way for the rich. Give it everything you’ve got – I want to see pictures of those families, with close-ups of their frightened children and Mrs Mukherjee in tears, on the front page of every paper in the country. I’ll go with Harish myself to Crouch’s constituency office tomorrow to insist on a meeting, and call for the annulment of the decision. Try and get some cameras there. Our demand will be simple – fairness and justice for all. Is that understood? Sam … are you still there?’
She eventually came back on the line.
‘I was just waiting for you to finish. I’ll do my best.’
Giles Penfold took off his headphones and mopped his forehead. Even allowing for Matt Barker’s over-excitement, this was all getting a little out of hand. The prime minister would not be at all pleased to hear of this development. Penfold would first have a word with one or two of his well-placed colleagues, to prevent any damaging leaks before they resolved the situation. Perhaps for once he would advise a tactical retreat, to allow the prime minister to reach out to the poor and underprivileged, and put the blame on the council. Making promises to the voters was surely what elections were all about. What the prime minister did after the election, when he was back in office, was not his concern.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
When Matt challenged Crouch to take part in a televised debate, he never thought he would accept. Crouch’s relaxed reply the following day, at a routine briefing for the local press, caught Matt by surprise. The prime minister’s remarks, clearly aimed at a wider audience, were caught on camera.
‘I’m a democrat,’ he told the journalists. ‘The beauty of the system in this country is that every five years, we reset the clock. Everyone’s given an equal chance to stand for Parliament, whether they’re an outgoing prime minister with a solid record of achievement in the national interest, or someone completely unheard of with no experience of politics or public service. I’d be more than happy to defend my record in government, and my party’s manifesto commitments for the future, with Mr Barker or any other candidate.’
The two candidates and their respective camps agreed the rules of engagement without too much difficulty. Discussions between Rob and his counterpart, Crouch’s agent Stanley Baxter, were unexpectedly civilised. The venue was a local church hall, which could
fit around three hundred people, and the moderator would be Caroline Bruce, a former BBC newsreader who lived in the constituency. The two candidates would toss a coin to decide the speaking order, and then each would take the floor for twenty minutes, followed by questions from the audience and five-minute closing statements. Although Rob was wary that Crouch would try and pack the room, they agreed that the meeting should be open to the public. Tickets could be reserved on a first come, first served basis, apart from a batch of fifty to be set aside and divided equally between the ENP and SOCA for distribution to their supporters.
Matt rehearsed every evening during the week before the debate. Rob played the part of Crouch, which he seemed to relish, much to everyone’s amusement.
‘I grew up in South London, the grandson of immigrants from Eastern Europe,’ said Rob, as Crouch, in one of their more lively exchanges. ‘Starting with nothing, I set up my own company and spent twenty years in business and public service, before becoming an MP. You’ve only ever been a squalid lobbyist. What makes you think you’re qualified to serve the people of this constituency?’
Sam interrupted.
‘I don’t think he’d use the word “squalid”. He’ll try and play the statesman and experienced politician. The trick will be for Matt to get under his skin without looking aggressive, and make him lose his self-control and say something he’ll regret, which we can quote against him afterwards. Remember that the audience we’re targeting won’t be the few hundred in the hall, but the hundreds of thousands watching at home on TV or on their computers and smartphones.’
‘I’ll stay calm, but I’m going to lay into him from the first minute, to throw him off guard. I need some dirt on him – Rob, you said you’d put an attack file together with a few stories and allegations from the past that we can keep in reserve if things turn ugly. I’ll mix the dodgy bits – if you find any - with a series of objective criticisms and accusations. We’ll need some hard evidence in case he pushes back. How about asking him to publish his tax returns - I can’t believe he’s always been straight about his financial affairs.’