by David Harley
She was looking at him fixedly with a contempt he had never seen before, as though she was seeing him differently, taking her distance, judging him.
‘Betrayal. That’s the only word to describe your behaviour – complete betrayal. You marched us up to the top of the hill, and when it didn’t work out as you had expected, you ran for safety. Tell me it isn’t true.’
His face was burning. He had expected a little more understanding for the dilemma they faced.
‘Answer me!’ she shouted. ‘Show me I’m wrong.’
Before the words were out of his mouth, he regretted them.
‘Why don’t you get some rest. Then we can talk about this rationally.’
The silence was excruciating. A shutter came down on Sam’s face.
Grimacing with pain, grasping the arms of her chair, she slowly got to her feet. She stood unsteadily in front of him in her torn and bloody shirt. As she began to speak, he could hear the self-righteous venom in her voice.
‘Let me spell it out for you once more - this is the situation we face. Two hundred people have died, many more of our closest supporters are being tortured as we speak. You set up our movement - you’re our leader. Our people would follow you anywhere. One word from you, and they’d come out in the streets and risk their lives to overturn this mean-spirited, godforsaken government that’s destroying everything this country stands for. Yet you’ve abandoned them. I’ll ask you one last time: when are you finally going to do something about it?’
‘It’s not that easy, Sam –’
‘- I thought you had courage, and that you’d stand by your principles and fight to the end – how wrong I was! All you can do is talk – you’re in love with an idea and with your own voice. When the call comes for action, to risk physical injury and even your life - as thousands of others have done in your name over the past few days - you just run the other way and disappear. Thank God I’ve finally realised what a sham you really are, a fake hero, a coward …’
She paused for breath. He couldn’t let this pass. Perhaps she was still in shock, but he wasn’t going to take any more. He had to make her see sense. As he moved towards her and tried to put his hands on her shoulders, with both arms she pushed him away.
‘This isn’t a simple choice between right and wrong,’ he said. ‘The future of our country and millions of people’s lives depend on what we decide to do. I wouldn’t be human if I didn’t find that decision daunting. I admit it, I’m lost, I’m flawed, as we all are. At this moment, I can’t see straight. I need some time to get my head round all this, and work out what we need to do. And find the strength. I’m sure I’ll recover – hopefully in a couple of days - and take the right decision, with or without your support.’
Sam’s face went blank. If anything, she looked bored, in a hurry to end the conversation. If that was what she wanted, he would let her go. If she felt they needed a few days apart, so be it.
‘We don’t have time, Matt, don’t you understand that? Can’t you just be honest for once about your intentions. If you don’t start organising the resistance now, this minute, I’m leaving.’
‘Leaving what?’
‘I’ll take my things and never come back here. If you haven’t the balls to fight, I’ll go to someone that has.’
He felt the kick in his stomach. He tried to work out what she meant. A dim light flickered in the back of his mind. And then he got it.
‘You mean Rob?’
‘Of course, who else?’
He knew he shouldn’t dig himself into this particular hole, but ploughed on anyway.
‘Stands to reason, I suppose. When was it exactly, your affair with him? You’re the one who’s always going on about honesty. Looks more like hypocrisy to me.’
She stood up and moved towards him. The scorn that showed in her battered face had sucked out all her usual tenderness.
‘Don’t be so fucking trivial!’ she said. ‘People are being murdered and all of a sudden you’re behaving like a jealous idiot.’
Hating himself, he continued in the same vein.
‘I couldn’t give a shit about what you got up to with Rob - I’m only asking you to tell the truth. Instead of pretending you occupy the moral high ground …’
She was no longer listening.
He watched her as she went into the bathroom. She quickly stuffed a random selection of cosmetics and a hairbrush into a washbag, and then grabbed some clothes from the cupboard and threw them into a suitcase. Matt wanted to tell her to stop, but the words wouldn’t come out. He stood rooted to his spot in front of the window, paralysed by the speed of what was happening, powerless to stop the giant boulder that was rolling down the mountain in slow motion, getting closer and closer, about to crack open his head.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Don’t go. Please stay.’
Without another word, Sam, his lover, his saviour, his rock, walked out of his life.
At least now he could get some peace. Shaking and sweating, Matt opened the cupboard and took out the malt, already half-finished. Two more bottles were hidden in his wellington boots behind the washing machine. He poured himself a large glass and switched off. Feeling disconnected was his only remaining pleasure. Something had snapped and he was no longer in control of his life, and most of the time he didn’t care. He had done his best, but there were too many problems. He couldn’t be expected to solve them all on his own. That would be unreasonable.
None of the blurred thoughts that crossed his mind seemed worth pursuing. He had to conserve his strength to deal with the shadowy enemies that surrounded him. They knew exactly where his weaknesses lay and could pounce out at any moment.
He no longer had anyone to turn to. He had lost all the women he had ever loved – Sarah, Jenny, and now Sam. The two people to whom he had been closest – Rob and Sam – had both betrayed him. All the usual reference points of his life – his work, his belief in the cause, his reputation, his self-respect – had vanished or been snatched away from him. It was like having his wallet stolen, only a thousand times worse: money, credit cards, the photos of his children and his very identity had been pilfered and turned over to some anonymous backstreet dealer in human suffering, who at that very moment was cutting up his last remaining means of survival and most cherished possessions into scraps and shreds. His component parts were being recycled in some other, unknown location. He would soon be nothing at all. The person he used to be no longer existed.
Every so often, the vague memory floated across his brain that, not all that long ago, he had been on course to become prime minister. Well, that time in his life was all over now. Looking back, how laughable and totally pointless it all seemed.
For three interminable, hazy days he drifted, knowing he ought to be thinking of how to face up to his demons and win Sam back, but unable to find the courage – the mere thought of the word felt like a kick in the teeth. He spent most of his waking hours watching daytime television. He didn’t change his clothes or shave, and hardly ate. Every evening he would drink half a dozen cans of lager and several tumblers of whisky, before turning up the music: any kind would do – drum and bass, Irish jigs, hard rock – the louder the better. An hour or so later he would pass out, dead drunk.
Throughout these days, Sam took up permanent residence at the back of his mind, lurking and reminding him of his weaknesses every time he started to sober up. He kept hearing that unmistakeable catch in her voice, that unbearable huskiness, which made him shiver and weep. She always said the same thing.
‘I believed in you, but I was wrong. You ran away at the first sign of trouble. I never want to see you again.’
Whenever he tried to answer and explain, she disappeared.
On the third night, waking up full of drink, he decided to stagger down to the river. Collapsing on a bench, he amused himself by trying to count the stars, until he lost track somewhere in the middle of the Milky Way and fell fast asleep.
When he woke up, he found him
self lying on the grass verge, surrounded by pigeons scavenging for crumbs. The sun was shining brightly, drilling into his eyeballs. His head felt as tight as a drum and his tongue tasted like sandpaper.
A blur of yellow stood over him, and then he heard a woman’s voice.
‘Are you all right, sir?’
Matt sat up, shielding his eyes and feeling the warmth of the sun on his face.
‘We know who you are, sir, but you’ll understand we have to ask you to move on,’ said a second woman’s voice.
The shapes around Matt slowly came into focus, and he realised that he was being spoken to by two policewomen in high-vis jackets. A small crowd was forming in front of the boathouse, some twenty yards away, waiting to see if the comic scene with the drunk and the policewomen might turn into a full-scale incident or at least provide further entertainment.
Matt tried to think of something he could say or do that would give him back a semblance of dignity. He failed to come up with anything. Hearing someone shouting, followed by a peel of laughter, he glanced in the direction of the crowd. Like a bucket of cold water being poured over his head, he suddenly saw in blinding clarity that the mother of all fuckups was racing towards him. Scrambling his fuddled brain into unfamiliar action – he had to kickstart the engine several times by slapping his head before it finally spluttered into action - he estimated he had approximately thirty seconds to save his life. He needed to escape from the gawping onlookers before someone recognised him.
‘I must have dropped off,’ said Matt to the two policewomen. ‘I’d better be going home.’
He managed to get to his feet, and brushed the crumbs and blades of grass from the front of his shirt. Swaying slightly, digging deep to draw on what little strength he still possessed, he set off at a brisk shuffle. If only he could make it to the high street on the other side of the bridge, he might be able to merge into the crowd of early-morning office-workers, commuters and schoolchildren without being identified.
In the dank darkness under the arches of the bridge, gulping for breath, Matt tucked his shirt into his trousers, patted down his hair and emerged into the sunlight. His face pointing resolutely downwards as he walked, imagining that he was protected from knowing looks by an invisible protective shield, he willed himself to appear unnoticed. He fired himself up by promising that if he made it back to the flat unscathed, he would do whatever it took to make amends for his moment of weakness. He would set off for the battlefield immediately. Naturally, he would never touch another drop. There was still time to inflict a crushing defeat on Crouch and the ENP.
Twenty minutes later, sweat pouring down his face and the back of his neck, suspended halfway between exhaustion and delirium, he was home. Apparently no one had spotted him on the way. Coming up in the lift, panting hard, he almost buckled under the wave of sheer relief that swept over him. He had behaved like a fool, and it had been the narrowest of escapes, but he could now put the episode behind him.
Matt had just turned the key in the lock, when two figures emerged from the shadow of the stairwell. They pushed him through the door and slammed it shut behind them. They had been waiting for him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
In the late afternoon, sitting together in the prime minister’s study, Penfold was showing Crouch the video of Matt Barker’s nocturnal escapade by the river. He had just suggested it be sent from an anonymous source to one or two selected news outlets.
‘Good idea - I think we’ve hit the jackpot with this one,’ said Crouch. ‘Barker’s campaign will never recover. I always knew he was a loser.’
And then the emergency phone rang, wiping the glee off his face. The home secretary’s voice was trembling, and she was struggling to sound coherent, as the words came tumbling out. Crouch put her on loudspeaker.
‘It’s just horrific …pandemonium … pools of blood and children’s screams coming from all directions,’ said Martha Hunt. ‘A van drove into the east stand of the O2 Arena and then came an enormous explosion, just as people were leaving the concert … the carnage was horrendous … people of all ages, families out for the evening together, including teenagers and young children. Over thirty dead already, including three members of the band, and the numbers are bound to increase.’
Crouch sank on to the nearest armchair, his face taut and impassive, simultaneously trying to follow what she was saying and deciding how he should react. This was truly a cruel and tragic blow, just when he thought he had successfully re-established law and order.
‘We’ve reason to believe that another attack is imminent, so we’ve moved the threat level to critical,’ Martha Hunt continued. ‘I have to ask for your authorisation to bring in the military.’
‘Of course, Martha. You must have all the resources you need. We’re still in a state of national emergency, after the crackdown on the opposition, so that makes things easier in a way.’
Seeing the frown on Penfold’s face, Crouch realised he hadn’t quite hit the right tone.
‘I’ll put out a statement immediately,’ he went on, lowering his voice to make it sound more grave, ‘condemning the atrocity and expressing our deepest sympathy with the victims and their families. Killing and maiming innocent children at a pop concert is an attack on our whole way of life, and we’ll never let the terrorists win.’
Penfold, who was listening carefully and taking notes, caught Crouch’s eye and mouthed something at him. Crouch nodded back his agreement.
‘Perhaps I’ll add a few words about our brave emergency services,’ he went on. ‘We’ll convene Cobra within the hour. Any idea who was behind the attack – presumably the Islamists again?’
Martha Hunt hesitated before replying.
‘That’s always a possibility, prime minister, but the police seem to think that this time it was the English Patriotic Front. It may be just a coincidence, but all the bands at the concert were black or Asian or both, and most of the audience too.’
‘Holy shit!’ said the prime minister, despite himself. ‘The police must have got it wrong.’
Crouch frowned and then closed his eyes, weighing up the situation. This latest information was potentially embarrassing. Although it had never been publicly proved, as one of its founders Crouch knew that in practice the Patriotic Front had close links with the English Nationalist Party. Some even called it the ENP’s military wing. He had to prevent these alleged connections from surfacing during the election campaign and losing him valuable votes. The moral dilemma in these painful situations was always the same: how soon after the tragedy could you decently bring the political calculations into play? Life had to go on, after all.
‘We’d better keep quiet about that for the moment. We don’t want to create a new climate of fear without having all the facts at our disposal. Just say the identity and motives of the attackers remain unknown.’
Penfold was making a circular gesture with the fingers of his right hand. Crouch took the cue.
‘And that at this stage the police are not ruling out that the perpetrators of this heinous crime are linked to a network of Islamist terrorists.’
‘Very well, Prime Minister. I’ll call you as soon as we have any further information.’
After the line went dead, Crouch stared silently at the ceiling. Turning his head in the hope that Penfold wouldn’t see him, he took a monogrammed handkerchief out of his jacket pocket and dabbed the corner of his eye. Although he rarely got any credit for it, he was as human as the next person. This lack of recognition was deeply unfair but – as so many times in the past –he wouldn’t let it deflect him from his purpose.
Penfold was rubbing his hands together in the far corner of the sofa. This generally indicated that he was about to say something Crouch didn’t want to hear.
‘You’d better schedule a visit to the victims in hospital,’ said Penfold.
‘You’re right – though we don’t want any media scrum. Keep it discreet and tasteful. Just one camera crew from the pool will d
o – make sure we get there in time for the ten o’clock news.’
Pursing his lips, Penfold scratched his right ear lobe.
‘This rather puts the kibosh on the Matt Barker story, wouldn’t you say, prime minister?’
‘What on earth do you mean?’
‘According to precedent, after a terrorist act on this scale, you’ll be expected to suspend all election activities for at least forty-eight hours and make a solemn appeal for cross-party unity – “what we have in common is more important than what divides us” etcetera. You can’t afford to give the impression that you’re involved in a personal attack on your main opponent at a time of national crisis.’
Crouch knew that Penfold was right – he just wished he wasn’t so sanctimonious about it. Penfold was a trusted adviser and good on detail, but he had no feel for the big picture of raw politics. The man had no balls. When he found himself in the heat of battle, his instinct was to run for cover. Whereas Crouch knew that exceptional situations required exceptional measures, and strong leadership. If he had a chance to destroy Barker once and for all, he would grasp it. He couldn’t allow the power of his office to slip out of his hands, merely on account of some half-baked precedent or prissy principle.
‘I would never dream of trying to make political capital out of the mental health problems of a political opponent. What sort of politician do you think I am?’
Penfold left the prime minister’s question unanswered, as they both turned to look at the breaking news on the wide TV screen. Ten more fatalities had been announced, eight of them young girls in their teens.
As Matt was propelled into the hallway of his flat, for the first few seconds he feared for his life. How naive he had been to think he could get away from his enemies so easily.
Then he recognised the familiar voices, and smelled the grapefruit tang of her shampoo, and his heart missed several beats as a wave of relief swept over him.