Sidetracked

by David Harley

  ‘I thought you wanted to be Mr Clean, and would never descend into personal abuse,’ said Rob, being himself now.

  ‘That’s exactly the image I want to project as candidate. That’s why any dirty work will have to be done by someone else, with no trace of my fingerprints. I want to rile him by stealth. Asking the prime minister if he’s ever committed tax fraud and evasion is a perfectly legitimate question. Particularly if we’ve got the evidence to back it up.’

  ‘Crouch is bound to underestimate you,’ said Sam. ‘Let’s reinforce that feeling by doing a few interviews to downplay expectations.’

  On the day of the debate, the West Thameside News carried a short piece containing several direct quotes from Matt, such as “Taking on someone of James Crouch’s stature is a daunting challenge”, and “I’ll be happy to get through the ninety minutes without committing a major gaffe”. The paper had bought their rather simplistic strategy. However crudely, the battle-lines were being drawn.

  Flanked by Rob and Sam, Matt led the way up the stone steps and through the double doors of the entrance to the church hall. The security guard on the door recognised him and greeted him politely. Matt and Rob were let through, but Sam was stopped as they checked her ticket.

  ‘You two go on ahead, I’ll catch up with you in a minute,’ she said.

  Inside the room was heaving and the noise deafening. All the seats were filling up fast. Matt turned round to see if Sam was coming but couldn’t see her. He spotted Ahmed and Harish waving at them from among the small number of reserved seats near the front, and went to join them.

  ‘Can you feel it?’ said Ahmed. ‘I’ve never seen any of these people before, yet they all seem to know each other.’

  Matt looked around and saw that Ahmed was right. Most of those present exuded the unsubtle self-assurance of the comfortably off. The regular braying of laughter from all sides of the hall sounded false and even orchestrated. Matt’s small band of faithful supporters were outnumbered.

  Sam came up and joined him, sounding breathless. Her face was pale.

  ‘They didn’t want to let me in,’ she said. ‘They just stood there, laughing at me, and pretended my ticket wasn’t valid. One of them asked what my new boyfriend was like in bed. He said he’d be waiting for me after the debate, mumbled a few more obscenities and let me through.’

  Matt stared at her in disbelief.

  ‘That’s completely unacceptable - who do they think they are? Which was one was it? I’ll go and speak to him – ’

  ‘Don’t bother. They knew exactly what they were doing. I think you’re needed on stage – we’ll talk later. ’

  Matt turned round and saw that James Crouch and Caroline Bruce had already taken their seats on the platform and were chattering away to each other. Crouch was seated to her right, with an empty chair on her left. Trying not to look too conspicuous, Matt moved to the side of the hall to observe his opponent.

  He’d never seen Crouch close up before. This was the man on whom his future hung. He was smaller than Matt had expected, and came over as self-contained, almost inoffensive. His jet-black hair was brushed back and kept in place by a few drops of shiny oil that made it shine and reflect the light, not a stray lock in sight. Impeccably groomed and turned out, nothing flashy or eye-catching. It was a clever and disarming look. He was smartly dressed, as one would expect from a prime minister, in a dark suit, white shirt and red tie. Matt wore a grey jacket and trousers and a light blue shirt, open-necked.

  He and Sam had had a long discussion about the pros and cons of wearing a tie. He was in favour, in order to appear more statesmanlike; she preferred informality, to highlight the age difference between Matt and Crouch and Matt’s image as the outsider. Matt had eventually accepted Sam’s advice.

  He was still furious at the way she had been treated by the security guards. After the debate was over, he would demand an explanation and an apology, and make sure Sam would never be treated like that again. He tried to clear his head and focus on the debate. Patting the palms of his hands on his trousers, he stood up straight and strode on to the platform.

  Although Matt’s small group of diehard supporters applauded him lustily, Crouch paid him no attention and went on speaking to Caroline Bruce. Matt stood in front of him, waiting for him to react. Crouch let him wait a few seconds longer before looking up at him.

  ‘So you’re the famous Matthew Barker that no one’s ever heard of.’

  Crouch’s grin was so broad, showing his gleaming white teeth, that for a moment it almost hid the traces of irony and mockery written all over his face. He appeared both affable and icy. On closer inspection, the malice and trickery were so transparent and writ so large that you could hardly fault him for it. Disconcerted, Matt found himself struggling not to warm to his enemy, as if he was being drawn in by some weird magnetic force. He thought back to all the pain and humiliation that Crouch and his henchmen had inflicted on him over the past few months. This was no time for sentiment or forgiveness - tonight was payback time. He would first lull Crouch into a sense of security – which shouldn’t be too difficult, given his air of overweening arrogance - and then rip him apart piece by piece, but calmly and with a smile.

  ‘Good evening, Mr Crouch. I look forward to our discussion.’

  Matt sat down next to Caroline, who asked the audience to take their seats. Then she introduced the two candidates - “one of whom most of you have known for many years, and the other who has only recently arrived on the political scene” - and explained the ground rules for the debate. She spun a coin and Crouch won the toss.

  To loud yells of support from the floor, Crouch slowly walked over to the podium. He stood for a moment, soaking up the applause, with his arms outstretched, in a Christ-the-Redeemer pose. After Caroline Bruce appealed for silence, the noise gradually died down as Crouch began to speak, quietly and in a low voice, forcing people to lean forward in their seats and listen.

  ‘I stand before you once again, in all humility, to ask for your trust and support, and for the privilege to represent this constituency in Parliament. Many of you know my family story, how I was born in poverty and started with nothing. By hard work and sheer bloody-mindedness, I built a successful business and ended up running the country. What kept me going during those difficult, early years was my pride in being English. All through my life, and today more than ever, I have been a proud believer in the virtues and values of the nation of England.’

  What a nerve – Matt guessed that Crouch didn’t believe a word of what he was saying. But he had to admit that he spoke well, and was winning over most of those listening. Crouch’s voice hardened as he began to speak more loudly and with greater intensity.

  ‘Working together, sparing no effort, we’ve achieved a great deal for our country over the past five years. England has become free again from the dead weight of the Brussels bureaucracy, and from the constant drain on our public finances imposed by the never-ending handouts to Scotland and Northern Ireland. The sham union that held us back for so long is no more. We have finally regained control of our destiny. The clearly expressed will of the people was for England to become independent. Together we’ve made that happen. I’ve kept my promise to you. We’re free again!’

  The chant of “Free Again” reverberated round the room, until Crouch asked for silence.

  ‘We’ve laid the foundations, but now we must build the house that will keep future generations safe, secure and prosperous. I ask you to give me the tools to finish the job, on your behalf. I ask you for five more years.’

  As the applause rippled around the hall, Crouch stood leaning against the lectern, seemingly indifferent to the wave of emotion that he had unleashed.

  ‘Before I finish, I’d like to say a couple of words about my opponent this evening.’

  Matt wondered what was coming next. Perhaps Crouch would patronise him with some false flattery.

  ‘Most of you had probably never heard of Matt Barker – I
certainly hadn’t. I’m told he wants to start a revolution. Let me give him a word of advice.’

  Crouch turned away from the podium to look directly at Matt.

  ‘You need to get real, Mr Barker. You’re too late. The revolution’s already happened, and your side lost. People like you – shady lobbyists, sleazebags, and profiteers - have no place in the new England that the rest of us have created with our blood and sweat. Go back to your liberal la-la-land – we don’t want your sort here.’

  As Crouch left the podium and went back to his seat, part of the crowd began chanting “Scum, scum, scum”, fingers pointing at Matt. Some of Crouch’s most vociferous supporters stood up, waving their fists.

  If they didn’t look so bitter and angry, their behaviour would be almost comical. The louder they shouted, the calmer Matt felt. Seeing the concern on the faces of Sam and Rob from their places in the front row, he gave an airy wave of the back of his hand to tell them not to worry.

  Caroline Bruce called the room to order and gave Matt the floor. He approached the lectern, carrying a blue folder. For a few seconds he stood in front of the audience saying nothing, his eyes scanning the room, drawing the people in. Then he began to speak, softly, deliberately.

  ‘I’ll be frank with you: I don’t recognise the mean-spirited England that James Crouch describes. He spoke about English values. I’ve no reason to doubt his sincerity. I’d simply ask for those values to be applied here today.’

  He paused.

  ‘I could suggest at least three. Tolerance. Respect for other faiths and cultures. Not descending into personal insults. All traditional English values.’

  He could see the questioning looks around the room. Some of those who were aggressively chanting a few seconds earlier were now looking defensive.

  ‘It’s difficult, isn’t it? When the outgoing prime minister sets the tone in the way he’s done tonight. That was beneath you, Mr Crouch.’

  Matt turned round and looked Crouch in the eye.

  ‘I could go further. I would seriously suggest that, instead of giving Mr Crouch five more years, you let him take a long holiday. From his behaviour this evening, it’s clear he needs a rest.’

  From the amused expressions on one or two faces around the room, Matt could see that some of those present were settling down to enjoy the rare experience of ironic remarks made at Crouch’s expense. He was just warming up.

  ‘It’s hardly surprising that he’s feeling washed out, after spending five years running the country into the ground. By the way, don’t be fooled by the self-made man shtick – he set up his company with a loan of three million pounds from his father. I’ve seen the evidence. I won’t embarrass him with any details about his mother’s profession, before she found herself a rich husband.’

  He heard some kind of commotion coming from where Crouch was seated behind him, but didn’t bother to look round. He assumed his words were having an effect.

  ‘Instead, let’s ask him why he hasn’t paid any tax on his investments for the past ten years. Ask him why he keeps all his savings offshore, on a small island in the Caribbean …’

  ‘Nonsense! That’s slander. It’s a complete fabrication – I’ve done nothing illegal,’ Crouch shouted.

  Matt turned to look at him, arms crossed, gently increasing the temperature.

  ‘Which is it, Mr Crouch, slander or a fabrication? You’d better make up your mind, because after this election you’ll no longer be protected. If you’d like to look at the evidence, it’s all here.’

  He picked up the large blue folder and waved it in the air.

  Caroline Bruce was trying to impress upon Crouch that he would have a chance to respond once Matt had finished his twenty minutes.

  Matt ignored them.

  ‘It saddens me to say this, but the stakes for the country are too high. The people have to be told the truth. Mr Crouch’s objective is to end democracy in this country, and turn it into a one-party state. He and most of the cabinet have illegally benefitted from million of pounds of taxpayers’ money. His protectionist, isolationist policies are ruining England’s economy and stealing our young people’s future. Only one conclusion can be drawn from this deplorable record: James Crouch is unfit to stand for public office of any kind – ’

  It was as though a dam had been breached. The boos and jeers grew louder and louder. A few chairs were hurled in his direction from the side of the room but didn’t reach the platform. Caroline Bruce tried but failed to make herself heard above the pandemonium. Matt caught Sam’s eye and made the sign of a square with the thumbs and forefingers of his two hands. She nodded back.

  As he heard the screech of a chair scraping on the floor, he turned round and saw Crouch striding towards him across the stage. Matt took a sip of water, taking his time. He wasn’t going to give way. The noise in the hall subsided, as the two men stood facing each other. Matt estimated he was a good four inches taller than his rival, and wondered if Crouch wore built-up shoes. Crouch’s face had turned puce. The room fell quiet, as their terse exchange was amplified around the room.

  ‘You owe me a retraction and an apology,’ said Crouch.

  ‘No way,’ Matt replied. ‘Every word I said is true and you know it. If you can’t stand the heat, you should resign. You’re no longer fit to be the prime minister of this country.’

  Matt waited for the inevitable reaction. Crouch was clenching his fists, his face twisted with fury.

  ‘I should never have agreed to this debate – I came here under false pretences. Nobody talks to me like that without paying the consequences. I’ll make sure you regret your behaviour tonight.’

  Crouch raised his right arm, fist clenched. Hardly able to believe his luck, Matt braced himself for the hit. Instead, as Crouch’s right hand came down, he tore the microphone from his lapel and threw it on to the floor. As he stormed off the platform, Matt registered the continuous clicking of what sounded like a hundred cameras.

  Was he dreaming, or had the prime minister really just gifted him a full-blown walkout on live television? He saw Rob and Sam in the front row, mouths open, looking equally incredulous.

  ‘Please, Prime Minister, please return to your seat,’ Caroline Bruce shouted, pleading with him to stay. ‘Come back and defend yourself against these allegations, so you can put your point of view to the thousands of viewers watching us tonight.’

  Her appeal was to no avail. Looking straight ahead, Crouch marched down the central aisle, followed by his retinue of advisers and bag-carriers, and out into the street.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  ‘Honestly, Prime Minister, I’ve got your best interests at heart,’ said Penfold, in the back of the Jaguar. ‘Don’t press charges or have him detained. It’ll just create more bad publicity. On the contrary, the least said the better. The incident will soon be forgotten.’

  ‘But he attacked me – the prime minister - and he insulted my mother.’

  ‘Actually, it was the other way round.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Technically, you attacked him first. You called him a shady lobbyist and a sleazebag, do you remember?’

  Crouch turned his head and stared blankly out of the car-window. How could he have been so stupid? Barker had got one over on him and it hurt. He had never felt so humiliated. His whole image was built around his self-control and unflappability. Away from the prying eyes of the media, he had a sadistic streak and a vicious temper, but nothing had ever been known to rile him in public. Until today. He wondered how he could repair the damage.

  ‘Call off the police car.’

  ‘A wise decision, if I may say so.’

  That was one Penfold’s standard phrases when Crouch ended up following his advice. They were a strange couple. Crouch valued him more than he would ever admit. Despite often being on the receiving end of Crouch’s private rants and tantrums, Giles Penfold had never let him down in the ten years he had worked for him.

  Yet Crouch knew that
his wheedling subservience was only an act, part of the unspoken bargain between them. Penfold never complained because in the end he always got his way. Wielding power behind the scenes was all he wanted. Thanks or recognition didn’t come into it, and would be considered an unwelcome distraction. Penfold could only continue to pull the strings if no one knew he was doing it, and the outside world continued to see James Crouch as all-powerful and impregnable.

  The incident with Barker annoyed Crouch because it had exposed a dangerous crack in the façade. Any sign of weakness was dangerous, and would set the vultures circling. Firm and decisive retaliation was called for, out of the glare of the media. No more faffing about. He would see if Penfold agreed. He invariably did, or at least pretended to.

  ‘I really did work my own way up, you know,’ said Crouch. ‘The suggestion I was helped by my poor father is absolute nonsense.’

  ‘I never doubted it,’ Penfold replied.

  ‘Perhaps I underestimated that man Barker, but I won’t make the same mistake again. We’ve got to proceed with the utmost care. No one else must know.’

  ‘Of course, Prime Minister.’

  ‘Naturally, I won’t be acting out of any sense of personal pique, but for the good of the country.’

  Penfold nodded respectfully.

  ‘Dissent and freedom of expression are fine during periods of peace and stability. When we’re faced with global pressures such as now, and the economy’s in free fall through no fault of the government, the people look around for someone to blame. Our clear duty at such moments in our history is to promote national unity, by all the means at our disposal. The stronger we appear, the more we can protect the most vulnerable in our society. We can’t afford the luxury of allowing rogue elements to roam around the system causing chaos and confusion. In periods of uncertainty, we must encourage our people to rally round the flag. We must all pull in the same direction, otherwise the whole edifice could come crashing down.’