Sidetracked

by David Harley

  ‘These decisions are eminently political, Prime Minister,’ he said. ‘It really wouldn’t be appropriate for me …’

  Without finishing his sentence, Penfold cleared his throat.

  What was the matter with the slippery bastard today? Penfold wasn’t usually so shy about giving his views on all manner of eminently political subjects. Typical civil servant, always covering his arse and afraid of his own shadow.

  The likely reactions to Crouch’s announcement were hard to predict. Would the others fall into line of their own accord, or would he have to resort to threats, or even force? The meeting they were about to attend, in the utmost secrecy, would make or break his political career and determine his legacy. His throat was dry, and the dim lighting occasionally made him stumble and grasp Penfold’s elbow to keep his balance. He hoped that, under the bright strip lights of the War Room, his nervousness wouldn’t show. He felt no qualms or trace of guilt, or so he told himself. Once the decision was announced, he was confident that eventually – after some initial hesitation that would be largely for show to cover their backs, so that if things went wrong later they could point to the minutes - the others would follow. If they didn’t, he would have to use force. He hoped that wouldn’t be necessary.

  The two protection officers that walked in front of Crouch and Penfold paid no attention as the prime minister occasionally raised his voice, his words reverberating off the walls of the tunnel. As they approached the end of the passage, Crouch glanced over his shoulder. He was reassured to see that the third man he had asked to join them, who wore a baggy dark suit, was still there, several discreet paces behind. Crouch counted on his ally to add an element of surprise to the meeting and act as his secret weapon. He beckoned the man to come forward and join him.

  They had known each other since Crouch’s earliest days in business. They rarely met but had kept in touch. Each was under no illusions about the trustworthiness of the other. Crouch had seen him as his sleeper, to be paid off and kept sweet for as long as necessary, waiting for the big day - the moment when England’s decrepit institutions would be consigned to history and the old liberal order torn down. That was when Crouch would make his move and bring his associate out of the darkness. He would use him against his unsuspecting enemies, to dispose of anyone who got in his way.

  That day had come. The man Crouch had summoned out of the shadows to stand by his side was Rob Griffiths.

  When Crouch had first told him about his plan to put an end to Matt Barker’s pretentions, it only took Rob a few seconds to get over his initial shock and see that the idea provided him with an opportunity. Crouch could almost see inside Rob’s head as his brain whirred, making his calculations of where the advantage might lie. For the right reward – not only financially, but also in terms of political influence - he would end up doing as Crouch asked. That was what Crouch had always liked about Rob’s style. He was a man of action and a tenacious negotiator. But the reward was important.

  Rob had arrived at Number Ten shortly before midnight. Crouch instructed the doorman to let him in through the back entrance off Horseguards Parade. When Rob was shown into the upstairs flat, Crouch hugged him warmly and brought two cans of beer from the fridge. Crouch ripped them open, handing one to Rob. They didn’t need to bother about glasses.

  As they each took a first swig, Rob was eyeing him, sizing him up.

  They sat down in two facing armchairs.

  ‘Good to see you, PM. How’s Valentina? Still in London?’

  ‘She’s safely tucked up in bed - you just missed her. Needs her beauty sleep. She’s a great support to me.’

  ‘I bet. Give her my warm regards. You made a good choice there - you’re lucky to have her. ’

  Rob sounded rather wistful. Perhaps he was being sincere for once. He had always claimed he liked living alone, and plotting and conspiracies were his meat and drink. Hard on the outside and soft on the inside, Crouch reckoned, with twin streaks of stubbornness and heartless cruelty. You wouldn’t want Rob Griffiths as your enemy. If he decided he was on your side, he would do anything for you, unquestioningly. At least that had been Crouch’s experience on the previous occasions they had worked together. What Crouch was about to ask would be the most difficult test of all.

  ‘You’ve spent a lot of time with Matt Barker recently. What state’s he in these days? Does he wander around in deep depression, or does he still think he’s going to conquer the world?’

  ‘He’s an idealist – completely out of touch with reality. He’s still standing though, despite everything you lot have thrown at him. The more he’s attacked, the tougher he gets.’

  ‘Hasn’t he ever suspected anything?’

  ‘The only time I thought he might see through me was when he got all steamed up about my ancient affair with the girl. But I put on a great show of loyalty and devotion, and we soon became best mates again.’

  ‘You’ve played him well,’ said Crouch, ‘but the game’s over. His movement’s become a serious danger to national security. The deep state’s finally lost patience, and the generals are demanding that SOCA should be declared an illegal organisation and disbanded.’

  Rob face hardened. He took another swig of beer and sat back in his chair, his eyes never leaving Crouch’s face.

  ‘That sounds a bit dramatic, PM. Do you really believe that’s the right course for the country? It might backfire. You look rather jumpy. Are you sure about this?’

  Crouch put his can of beer on a side-table and loosened his tie.

  ‘The thought that I might lose the election fills me with despair. I can’t accept to be forced out, after all these years. After everything I’ve done for the people.’

  Rob showed no sympathy. Nor did he appear too concerned by the prospect of Crouch being defeated.

  ‘You’ll get over it - that’s democracy. You can’t always be on the winning side.’

  ‘As a general rule, that’s true. Except this time it’s different. The people that count in this country – those that have always had its interests at heart - have made it clear that they won’t accept Matt Barker as prime minister. They’ve no desire to give up power, and neither have I.’

  ‘If he wins the election, you won’t have much choice.’

  ‘We’ll see about that. There’s a growing consensus that we need a different system. Liberal democracy’s no longer up to the job, history’s moved on. We can’t have an idealistic clown with no experience running the country in cahoots with a ragbag of disaffected Greens, Trotskyites and communitarians. We’d be the laughing-stock of the world.’

  Rob crossed his arms, his face still impassive.

  ‘From the moment the polls close,’ Crouch went on, ‘there’ll be a gun pointing at Barker’s head. England deserves better than that. Within days the pound will be worthless, the economy will collapse. Barker might even try to get rid of the royal family – I’m told he’s a closet republican. SOCA’s only got a chance of being elected because of the perversity of the system. We need new, stronger institutions run from the top down, and a government formed of people with direct experience of running a business or defending the country from our enemies. Of course, if the ENP wins the election, nothing will happen.’

  ‘Naturally,’ said Rob.

  Crouch wondered if he was taking the piss.

  ‘And if they lose, and the military take over, what will you do?’

  ‘If asked, I’ll be ready to serve, wherever I can be useful.’

  Rob looked at him in wide-eyed disbelief.

  ‘Let me see if I’ve got this right. You, the current prime minister - who if I remember correctly was democratically elected - are saying that if your party doesn’t win the election, you’re ready to support a military coup d’état and become the generals’ puppet – is that your position?’

  ‘That’s a gross misrepresentation of the facts, but broadly correct. Sadly, we’d have no other choice. We mustn’t allow the saboteurs to take power – the
y’d destroy everything we believe in. Barker must be killed and the insurrection crushed. That’s where you come in. This is what I want you to do.’

  When Crouch entered the War Room, with Penfold and Rob Griffiths standing next to him, he immediately sensed that something was not right.

  ‘Come in, Prime Minister,’ said General Sir Nicholas McIntyre, Chief of the Defence Staff. ‘We’ve been waiting for you. Take a seat.’

  The four-star general was dressed in full military regalia, and wearing an impressive array of combat and service medals.

  He was sitting at the head of the long rectangular table, in the place usually reserved for the prime minister.

  ‘Find yourself a chair,’ barked the general. ‘It’s time we made a start.’

  There was no point in making a fuss. Crouch spotted an empty chair halfway along the far side of the table and sat down between two naval officers. Before Penfold could hand him his file, General McIntyre started speaking.

  ‘At different periods in our history, many decisions that were vital for our country have been taken in this room,’ said the general, looking round the table. ‘Whichever branch of the armed forces or society we represent, I’m sure we’re all aware of our responsibilities.’

  Crouch raised his hand and asked for the floor. The general gave him a dismissive look.

  ‘If you insist,’ said the general, and began speaking to the aide sitting next to him.

  ‘With respect, General, the convention is that it’s usually the prime minister who opens these meetings –’

  Turning to look at Crouch with an expression of amazement, McIntyre let out a loud, booming guffaw, triggering ripples of laughter all round the table.

  ‘Could I point out, Crouch, that this meeting is secret. It isn’t actually happening.’

  More titters of laughter. Trying to hide his irritation, Crouch knew his face was burning from the slight. He looked around the table for potential allies who could speak in his favour, but saw no one. Over half those present were in uniform, from all three services, their peaked caps, embellished with copious quantities of scrambled egg, lying in front of them on the table. Two of the three air force representatives were women, smartly dressed in sky-blue serge. Wedged in between the khaki, the navy blue and the gold braid, Crouch counted half-a-dozen owners of newspapers and TV channels, several CEOs of FTSE 100 companies, and two bespectacled note-takers whose over-serious, constipated expression gave them away as courtiers from the Palace. Penfold and Griffiths were leaning against the far wall, both studiously avoiding his gaze.

  ‘Ergo,’ the general went on, managing to look both serious and indecently pleased with himself, ‘if the meeting isn’t taking place, the usual rules can’t apply. Which doesn’t mean that we’re not keen to hear what you have to say. I’m sure we’ll all be on the edge of our seats. All in good time. Do you mind if I continue?’

  Gritting his teeth, with a wave of his hand Crouch graciously allowed General McIntyre to go on.

  ‘Before I was interrupted … I was reminding everyone here of the historical significance of this room. Winston Churchill’s greatest victories – his finest hour – were meticulously planned and prepared within these four walls.’

  An air of solemnity descended on the meeting room. Crouch found the air thick and dank, and felt the perspiration seeping on to his shirt underneath his armpits. This was not turning out as he had expected.

  ‘In our different ways, we’ve all been involved in the fight to defend democracy and freedom, both in this country and around the world. We’re here tonight to prepare for the worst-case scenario in tomorrow’s general election. If by mischance the subversive alliance wins a majority, we shall act swiftly and ruthlessly to bar their route to power. I take it we’re all agreed that we should do our duty to stand up for England?’

  The room erupted with cheers and the noise of the generals and admirals thumping the table with clenched fists. The civilians present merely clapped loudly.

  ‘That’s settled then. Everything’s in place to uphold the values we and our forebears have fought for since time immemorial, across the globe in the days of Empire and, when duty called, against the barbarians on the other side of the Channel. Prime Minister, are you with us or against us?’

  The pompous git. In the perfect silence that followed the scratching of chairs on the floor as their occupants shifted position, Crouch felt all eyes upon him.

  ‘You can count on me to remain in Number Ten for as long as I have your agreement and support.’

  He smiled and looked around the table, expecting praise and gratitude, but none came.

  ‘Good man,’ said General McIntyre. ‘We’ll be in touch. Now who’s volunteering to command a battalion in Parliament Square?’

  Crouch knew his fate was sealed. He could remain in office, but not in power. In a way he was not surprised – the military had been itching to wrest power away from the politicians ever since the successive years of draconian defence cuts in order to finance austerity. The abandonment of Trident - and the accompanying humiliation in the eyes of the Americans - had been the last straw. No more freebies to Washington or late-summer training exercises in the Med. He knew how much they resented the loss in hard-earned status and privilege.

  In all their bluff and bluster, they had underestimated him. Crouch would go along with them for now, to ensure his own survival, but once the election and its aftermath were over, he would find a way of sending the square-headed squaddies back to barracks. Despite their invariable professions of loyalty to the country and the government, they were not always very quick on the uptake. He would eventually outmanoeuvre them and exact revenge. In the meantime, he might even confound them by winning the election. Democracy was such a blunt instrument.

  PART 5 – ON THE BRINK OF VICTORY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  ‘I need a quiet moment, and I’d like you to come with me,’ said Matt to Sam, the afternoon before polling day.

  Neither spoke as the driver took them to the Muslim Cemetery in Waltham Forest, known as the Gardens of Peace. They took off their shoes before walking between the graves to the place where Ahmed was buried. The grass was dry and freshly cut.

  The past few weeks had seen a gradual improvement in Matt’s relations with Ahmed’s parents. Matt had spent many hours in their home explaining the background to Ahmed’s death, and eventually his father Mustafa had almost forgiven him. At least he accepted the sincerity of Matt’s admiration and affection for his son.

  Before going to the cemetery, Matt had told Mustafa of his intention, and he had voiced no objection. He said he and his wife Nasreen prayed for Ahmed’s soul every day. The youngest son Mo sat on Ahmed’s old bed for hours, when he came back from school, as if willing Ahmed to return from his long journey and start playing football with him again and helping him with his homework. Mo didn’t show much emotion, but his parents knew his bottled-up grief for his big brother hurt him as much as ever. They were worried about the boy, and two weeks earlier had taken him to see a doctor, who had given them a prescription for some anti-depressants, to use in moderation. Mustafa still hadn’t been to the chemist’s to get the pills. He wanted to help Mo, but drugs didn’t seem right somehow.

  Matt didn’t pray or hope that Ahmed would reappear, but he too thought of him almost every day. Not when he was out on the streets or in the TV studios or in the middle of something, but at certain moments late at night, or when he was alone, or at those times when he became introspective and wondered about the meaning of what he was doing and what would be the final outcome.

  The stooges of the country’s rulers who had no heart had cut short Ahmed’s life, brutally and deliberately. Like the little boy Mo, Matt would never completely get over his feelings of sadness and guilt. He knew too that at any time they could do to him what they had done to Ahmed.

  When they arrived at the simple white headstone showing Ahmed’s name, Sam squeezed Matt’s arm and took a st
ep back. He said nothing and made no gesture, but was grateful to her.

  He shuffled half a step forward and bowed his head, his hands clasped behind his back, speaking softly to the grave.

  ‘Sorry, my friend,’ he whispered. ‘You were the best of us. We’ll drink to you tomorrow – orange juice, of course - if all goes well, or even if it doesn’t. You’re still on the team, we won’t forget you. You did more than most to help make all this happen. Have a good rest.’

  The tears rolled slowly down his cheeks until he wiped them away with the back of his hand. Matt turned to Sam, shaking his head.

  ‘It wasn’t worth it, was it?’ he said.

  ‘That’s the wrong question. If Ahmed were with us now, he’d be furious to hear you say that. You remember how he used to get so worked up when he believed he was right about something and the rest of us didn’t understand.’

  The memory made Matt cry a little more as he forced a smile.

  ‘Ahmed would want us to go all the way. Whatever the result tomorrow, whatever the cost and the pain – and who knows, there may be more to come - it’s been the right thing to do. You know that’s true.’

  This time Sam put her arm through his, as they walked back between the graves.

  ‘I suppose, paradoxically, I should tell myself I’m lucky,’ said Matt. ‘Lucky to be here at this time, and to have this chance.’

  They reached the car. Before getting in, Matt rested his elbows on top of the car, leaning forward, scanning the high-rise flats towards the horizon, before glancing back towards the cemetery. He suddenly banged the flat of his right hand on the roof, and turned to face Sam, his eyes blazing.

  ‘The countdown begins tonight. No more soul-searching. Nothing can stop us now.’

  When they got home, Matt told Sam that he had one more visit to make before meeting all the campaign workers for a thank-you drink at the White Swan.