Sidetracked

by David Harley

  ‘We missed you. We thought you might need some company,’ said Rob, playfully punching him on the shoulder.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Sam, before throwing her arms around him and kissing him.

  ‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ said Rob, disappearing into the kitchen.

  ‘Those bruises suit you,’ said Matt, gently running his finger over the scar above her left eye. ‘Gives you a kind of battle-hardened look.’

  ‘Idiot,’ she whispered, her head gently nuzzling against his neck.

  Time stopped, and all his fears fell away. Standing alone with her and feeling her embrace was like receiving an electric charge. Matt wanted to shed his outward skin of drink and grime there and then, and pick up his life anew as if the nightmare of the past few days had never happened. He was desperate to show her that, despite appearances and everything they had gone through, he was his old self. He could still lead the crusade.

  Sam pulled away from him, wrinkling her nose. They stood facing each other.

  ‘Where have you been?’ she asked. ‘I’m sorry I was so hard on you – I wasn’t feeling too well myself. We called you several times a day and left messages but you never replied. I was worried stiff. We had to change the entire campaign schedule - Rob did most of the filling in for you, and told the press you were rewriting the manifesto. They didn’t believe a word of it. Then this morning we got an anonymous call saying you were heading this way from the river, looking as if you needed help, and we came straight over. What were you doing all this time?’

  If he told her, would she understand? He had to take the risk. There was no point in making up an excuse, or pretending he felt contrite. Nor should he put some of the blame on her for walking out on him. It wasn’t that simple, far from it. Tentatively, he started to explain, while looking her in the eye, daring her to express her disapproval, even disgust, at what he was about to say.

  ‘I couldn’t call you because I wouldn’t have made any sense. I was ill, so I had to lie low for a few days. However hard you try to resist, sometimes the demons win. Now I’m back, the same as ever, ready to fight again, you have to believe me …’

  Sam laid a finger on his lips.

  ‘You don’t have to say anything. Whatever caused you to do this, you’re forgiven. I’m on your side.’

  She took a step back and crossed her arms.

  ‘Although there’s still one more thing we’ve got to clear up, where you haven’t been entirely straight with me.’

  ‘What do you mean, I’ve been completely open –’

  ‘- Depression is one thing, and there you have my sympathy, but there’s something else you need to do. For both our sakes, and for what we both want to achieve. You know what I mean. No more drinking.’

  Squirming, Matt closed his eyes. This was unfair. Didn’t she realise that he could never survive the darkness without the bottle?

  ‘I’ll support you, and we can get you some help, but it’s up to you. What you need now is to get back to doing what you do best. I know you don’t like flattery …’

  That was before. A few compliments right now would go down quite nicely. Try me …

  ‘… But your strengths far outweigh any occasional moments of weakness. It may sound strange, even trite, but you can’t get away from the simple fact that the people need you, Matt. They admire you. You’ve got the gift – you inspire them. And you know it works both ways: when you sense you’re lifting them, you feel energised. You could call it a positive form of egotism. But the precondition is you stay sober. Let’s talk later, if you feel like it. Now have a wash and get some rest. We need you back on the campaign trail first thing tomorrow morning.’

  Although he knew that she was right, he was desperately reluctant to move away from her. She must have been reading his mind.

  ‘We’ve got the whole night ahead of us. In the meantime, I’ll be waiting for you, right there,’ said Sam, pointing at the sofa. ‘I won’t move. I’ll never leave you again, I promise, unless you throw me out – and provided you do what I say.’

  He saw the mischief back in her eyes, as the old complicity started to flow again between them, binding them together.

  ‘Now you’d better be telling the truth …’ he said, putting on a solemn face. ‘Desertion in the face of the enemy is a treasonable offence.’

  Awash with gratitude, but not wanting to show it, Matt showered and went straight to bed. His last thought before losing consciousness was that he had better hide the bottles behind the washing machine before she found them. He might even pour the contents down the sink as a secret gauge of his good intentions and conversion to sobriety. He hated being lectured – particularly when he was in the wrong – but he would do anything to keep her. Well, almost anything. And then he was lost to the world.

  After sleeping straight through until the late afternoon, and shaving off his week-old stubble, he put on some clean clothes. He felt positively buzzing and glowing from the unaccustomed cocktail of rest, cleanliness and the chance of redemption. Before going into the living room, he sat on the bed and thought about his next move. His mind seemed so clear that he almost felt apprehensive, as if he was still under the effects of some euphoria-inducing substance. Whatever the source of his inspiration, he knew what he had to do. The key to his survival would surely be to destroy the person who was most responsible for trying to push him over the edge.

  It wasn’t exactly about taking revenge, more like redressing the balance in favour of decency and dignity. He would never stoop to Crouch’s methods. Eliminating those old ways was the point of their battle.

  Sam was waiting for him, as she had promised, sitting on the sofa and staring into mid-air. When she saw him, she wiped the worried look off her face, and went to make them a pot of tea. The living room and kitchen were spotlessly clean and a delicious smell came from the oven. There was no sign of Rob.

  They sat at the kitchen table at their usual places, facing each other. He saw that Sam was watching him tenderly but warily. They each began by profusely apologising, talking over each other, and then agreeing to draw a line. It was nobody’s fault, and anyway they had more important things to discuss.

  When she said with mock seriousness that, from now on, under no circumstances would she ever let him out of her sight again or do another runner, he trusted her totally and felt exhilarated.

  ‘I’ve put a chicken and some potatoes in the oven,’ she said. ‘In the meantime – where shall we start?’

  ‘Nothing less than total victory will do. We’ve lost a couple of days but we can still make it happen.’

  ‘Of course we can.’

  Her eyes shone as she looked at him, but her expression had switched to solemn and serious.

  ‘There’s something you need to know. While you were asleep, there’s been some more bad news.’

  What could she mean? He couldn’t bear the thought of another setback, just as he was starting to leave the darkness behind and embrace reality again.

  After reaching across to him and placing her hand over his, Sam tentatively began to tell him about the O2 bombing, describing the attack and its deadly consequences for the victims, many of whom were young people barely in their teens. As she spoke and he took in the scale of the atrocity and the suffering, Matt flinched under the weight of his shame. Threatening clouds of doubt fluffed around his thinking, and his head felt fuzzy. He forced himself to push aside all the preying distractions and concentrate on what Sam was telling him.

  ‘Your silence has been noticed, of course, and already condemned by our opponents. We presume Crouch knows about your disappearance, but so far he’s not gone public because he knows it wouldn’t look good in the current circumstances. Tomorrow you’ve got to be back in the front line. If you’re not, we’ll lose everything.’

  ‘Give me a moment,’ he said, plunging his head in his hands.

  Yet another tragic blow. At first he wasn’t sure he could take any more. The thought that during his disa
ppearance so many young and innocent people had suffered such pain was unbearable. The attack wasn’t his fault, but his failure to react immediately and show sympathy was unforgivable. He owed it to the families of the victims to show he was on their side.

  He was right to feel the shame, yet feeling guilty would be of no practical help to anyone. He began composing in his mind the statement he would send to the press and on social media. If he didn’t find the right words to react to the tragedy, his reputation would never recover. More importantly, he had to stop the country from sinking further into the mire of violence and hatred.

  As Sam waited for Matt to reply, she gave him one of her long, stern looks, with no visible hint of sentiment or affection. If she was still unsure that he was capable of showing leadership, he would prove her wrong. He drank the last dregs of his tea, before pushing the cup and saucer away from him.

  ‘So what will you say?’ Sam asked.

  He spoke hesitantly at first, as much to himself as to Sam, before quickening the pace, and imbuing his words with purpose and rhythm.

  ‘I’ll tell them this must be the last attack. The violence has to end. People are tired of hearing politicians produce the same old platitudes, while the attacks keep on happening. This time it’s got to be different. The whole country has to make sure nothing like this ever happens again. It’s not the moment to play the blame game or point the finger at minorities, it’s a time for national solidarity, for everyone to stand together. This isn’t about me, or Crouch. The only people that count this evening are the victims in the O2 Arena and their families. Everything else is secondary, mere background crackle and interference. The stakes couldn’t be higher – we’ve crossed a line tonight, with what looks like the first mass attack by English white supremacists on the Muslim community in London. The government’s only answer to violence and hate is more of the same. They’ve imposed a news blackout again, which the mainstream media are slavishly applying. They’re bringing in the army, yet they’re losing control – England’s tearing itself apart. We’ve got to stop the bloodshed, and heal the wounds.’

  He knew he had her with him now. The clouds of doubt had lifted from Matt’s mind. Neither needed to spell it out - this was the moment he had to decide for himself. He hardly had to think – the pieces were falling into place in his mind of their own accord.

  He sat up very straight in his chair, and told her what he would do.

  ‘Call Hassan at The People’s TV in Shoreditch. Tell him I want to make a statement at midnight tonight. In the meantime, you can trail a few lines on social media. It’s my duty to stand up for what we believe and do what I can to prevent another massacre. My message will be brief, down-to-earth and unsentimental. No ‘’hand of history on our shoulder” stuff. The only way we can stop Crouch’s guns is to win the people’s hearts.’

  After devouring the chicken and potatoes – his first proper meal in days - and refusing Sam’s offer of a glass of wine after a second’s hesitation, he set to work. She cleared the table and brought him a cup of strong coffee. He had two hours to find a way of staving off a national tragedy of immeasurable proportions. Fear and rationality were beside the point. Precisely because the challenge was so impossible, he knew that if he found the right words, he was in with a chance.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  ‘I’m sorry to interrupt,’ said Sam as she and Matt sat on the back seat of the speeding car on the way to the studio in Shoreditch. ‘There’s something I think you should see.’

  Matt looked up from correcting, for the umpteenth time, the text of his statement, and glanced at Sam’s iPad. The headlines couldn’t be clearer: in a long interview with the BBC’s political editor, Crouch had declared Matt unfit for public office, alleging that he had a history of mental illness and depression. Matt gave Sam back the tablet.

  ‘He can say what he wants – it won’t make any difference. Personal attacks are not what people want to hear right now. It makes him look cheap.’

  Matt didn’t know how to change a plug or fix a leaking tap. Didn’t know or couldn’t be bothered. Instead his mission was to save the country. Communicating effectively with hundreds of thousands of people - for example, by making a crucial speech that could change the course of history - was what he was capable of doing well. Soaring above the day-to-day, the mediocre. Finding the words, the tone, the flow and the lyricism that move to tears or give hope, that was what he tried to do. Experience had shown that it usually worked.

  This time he had to inspire an entire people to rise up against the political system. Logically he had little chance - England was a conservative country, after all. But approximately once every two centuries - as exemplified by the Peasants’ Revolt, Oliver Cromwell and the Tolpuddle Martyrs – the people had broken with tradition and shown their innate streak of radicalism, by opposing the ruling class. Was this the time for them to do so again?

  Things could always go horribly wrong, and doubtless one day they would, but tonight disaster was unthinkable. He thought of those who had lost their lives, and knew he had no choice but to succeed. The possibility of failure was not so much feared, as a recognised part of the process. Like stage fright. He had to feel nervous, in order to stay calm.

  As they drove through the darkened streets, Matt put aside his script and looked blankly out of the window. Preparing for the ordeal, the hardest test he had ever faced. Alone, untouchable, cut off from the world around him, even from Sam. That was how he liked it and how it had to be. She knew him well enough by now. He would only come down and return to his normal self when the last word had been spoken and the last microphone switched off. Until then he would stay locked away in his separate state, calmly prepared to risk everything.

  To the recorded sound of Big Ben striking midnight, Matt appeared on the screen, seated behind a desk of stripped pine. He spoke into the camera, firmly, calmly, with authority and a hint of steel. His eyes never flickered.

  ‘Friends, fellow Englishmen and women: my appeal to you tonight is quite simple. We must act together to save our country and pull it back from the brink of disaster. For years we hoped it would never come to this, but now the moment of reckoning has finally arrived. We no longer have any other choice, but to stand up for what we believe in, to stand and fight, whatever the risks.’

  Matt had the impression that, unusually, every single cameraman, sound engineer and technician in the studio, as well as focussing on their jobs, was waiting to hear what he would say next.

  ‘Our opponents will tell you that those who support the Save Our Country Alliance are enemies of the state, filled with hatred and bent on revolution, and that only the English Nationalists can protect and guarantee order and prosperity. Don’t listen to them. These are the arguments that have been used by fascists down the ages. They will tell you that I’m a manic depressive and unfit for public office. Don’t listen to them. In all humility, I would point out that their mean-spirited equivalents at the time said exactly the same about Winston Churchill and Abraham Lincoln. Moreover, it was probably true. But their mental condition didn’t stop either of those great men from saving their country from destruction and oblivion. Some medical experts say it even helped them.’

  He hoped Sam appreciated that last reference. He had included it with her in mind.

  ‘The time for action and resistance has come. If we look around our country, we see state-sponsored killings, racist attacks and government corruption on an unprecedented scale. If we don’t act, the unthinkable will become reality: the evil of fascism will have taken root in the country of Shakespeare and Churchill.’

  ‘James Crouch and the leaders of the English Nationalist Party already have blood on their hands, but they’re still not satisfied. They will cling on to power whatever the cost. Although they sense they’re losing this election, they want to drag the country down with them. We shouldn’t underestimate the seriousness of the situation we face.’

  Matt leaned forward, speaking d
irectly to the viewers at home, the tone of his voice softer than before.

  ‘Many of you watching may be saying to yourselves, and to your family and friends, ”Who’s this man who’s suddenly appeared from nowhere, who no one had ever heard of only a few months ago? What’s this movement he’s set up? Why should we trust him?” You’re right to put these questions – here’s my answer. What this new movement has achieved over the past six months, week after week, month after month, has no precedent. When we started out, they told us it was impossible, but they didn’t understand the spirit and the strength of the people of England.’

  The rhythm of the words began to flow as he stepped up the pace and intensity.

  ‘The old ways are finished. Our opponents know the tide has turned against them. Day after day, we’ve proved the doubters and the naysayers wrong. They threw everything at us, and we went on fighting. When they knocked us down, we picked ourselves up and continued the battle. We never gave up, because we knew that England had to change.’

  ‘In ten days’ time, if you give SOCA a majority in Parliament, that process of profound transformation will begin. SOCA is the only political movement with the courage to confront reality, and to answer the people’s call for fairness, justice and change. The old divisions between left and right, young and old, London and the rest, must be healed. We’ll offer you a new vision for a new era, where individuals count and local communities are empowered. Where business can be a driving force of prosperity for all, instead of a vehicle for tax evasion and short-term profits for the wealthy few. Justice not corruption. Equality not elitism. A tax system that supports job opportunities for the young, and public services that serve the public. A root-and-branch reform of all our national institutions, to ensure they are no longer shackled to the past, but provide a solid foundation for renewal and reform.’

  He paused and took a deep breath. He had to put everything in to the final message of his statement. His voice took on a new level of gravity.