From the pier, you can hear the tide wash over the stones of the shore.
There is a parade of candyfloss traders.
A dodgems circuit.
Crazy golf.
On the concrete walkway is a shed where the pedalos are kept. Further along is the lifeboat museum.
There are cranes from where the shipyards used to be.
You can just make out a tanker in the distance.
There are seagulls overhead, circling the sky, crowing for someone to throw something. Don’t they know that no-one cares?
He stares out to sea. If he were a seagull he would shit on the town.
Two
By the end of the week, everything will be fine. All he needs to do is sort out the trouble. Sort out the lie. That way he can make a plan for freedom.
No matter where you look – be it the petrol station to the left, or the business park to the right – there is nothing you would call beautiful. If you hadn’t visited for years, you could be misled into thinking everything is better now. A social revolution in the form of plastic apartments.
‘I’m excited,’ Barry says with his hands on the wheel. ‘For the first time in ages people are talking about Joe Street.’
‘For appalling reasons.’
‘Do you even know the girl?’
‘No.’
The best thing is to clench the seat belt cord.
On the dashboard is a tabloid rag, which Barry must have bought, as if to demonstrate his idiocy.
‘Bastard thing,’ Barry says, shifting into fifth gear.
The car is an enemy. The car is something to resent, and pity. The car is an idiot.
When you look at Barry, there’s a temptation to pull his cheek, just to check it’s not a rubber mask. Aside from their heads, which are balding, they have nothing in common.
‘I think it has become professionally advantageous to acknowledge the girl.’
‘For something I haven’t done?’
‘The public likes honesty. That’s as much as anybody can be these days. Honest and kind.’
‘But I am being honest.’
‘Not in their eyes. They like a man who’s keen to build bridges.’
‘I haven’t broken any bridges.’
‘You’re paddling.’
*
This is a crisis and he knows it too well. You don’t book a hotel room above the Hanger Lane gyratory system without there being a crisis.
Hanger Lane, in outer west London, is the sort of place you’d visit if you don’t like London very much. There is a tube station if you need it, and a motorway, which allows a quick exit.
The sound of passing cars can be heard through the pane. What is there to see? Eight lanes of traffic and a tube station. Somewhere in space, alien creatures will be looking down and laughing at Hanger Lane. Of course, when you look out of the window it’s hard not to have one of those moments where you think, what am I doing here? The reality is too much to think about. And for a man of his age – fifty-nine – there’s only so much time in which you can keep fucking around.
On the floor is a cardboard bucket filled with grey chicken bones.
A piece of the remote control is missing, which requires him to hold in the batteries whilst changing the channel.
On the television is the rolling news. Watch it for long enough and you’ll lose your mind. It’s the highlights from a debate in parliament. The volume is too low to hear anything. They will probably be talking about the war, and the reasons for sending combat troops. Even without the sound, you can see the cabinet members frowning. Some of the opposition are waving sheets of paper. The speaker of the house bangs the gavel.
‘Order, order,’ the speaker will be saying.
If he were there, on the backbenches, he would be shaking his head. By the time he had left Westminster – or rather, been told to resign – he was an irrelevance. That was four years ago. It was a conventional sort of disgrace. And of course, it was a legitimate scandal, unlike the one that has since befallen him.
‘Would you send troops?’ Barry says.
‘No.’
‘It’s a shame you can’t vote.’
On the next channel is a game show in which the contestants make fools of themselves.
Barry opens his laptop on the desk. ‘We need to stick something on your blog.’
‘I don’t want a blog.’
‘Yes you do.’ Barry fixes something on top of the monitor. ‘Just speak into the lens like it’s a real person.’
‘What do I have to say?’
‘Talk about how the internet is transforming the way young people engage with politics.’
‘That doesn’t sound like me.’
‘I know. Here, look at the screen. Do you see your face?’
‘Is it on?’
‘Yes, go ahead.’
It’s difficult to know where to begin.
‘Hello. I’m Joe Street.’
His voice seems weaker than he expected.
‘I don’t want to sit here and tell you what to think. It’s important for people to decide for themselves what they believe. I just hope everyone can be the person they want to be. Just… be good. Don’t kill anyone.’
‘That was weird.’
‘I don’t have anything else to say.’
‘Don’t kill anyone? Let’s do another take.’
‘No.’
‘We’re recording.’
‘Turn it off.’
‘Good afternoon, Joe. What did you think of the Prime Minister’s speech today?’
‘I think he’s a cunt. Turn it off or I’ll smash that thing on the floor.’
‘Calm down.’
‘Turn it off, then.’
It was all supposed to be simple. If it wasn’t for the lie, he could do what he wanted.
There is a stapled document on the bed.
‘What’s this?’
‘It’s got everything I need to know. Your successes, your failures. I need to update the section on failures.’
‘You’ll need a lot of paper.’
Joe Street, former education secretary. The fallen minister. The lost politician.
Barry walks to the window with his hands on his hips.
‘The kid runs a soup kitchen. He’s a do-gooder type. You must know the sort.’
‘I am the sort.’
‘George, he’s called. A do-gooder.’
‘You said.’
‘Born with a silver spoon in his mouth. His parents gave him some money to set up a homeless charity.’
‘That’s nice.’
‘A guilt complex, I’d call it.’
If he looks at the floor, he won’t have to debate anything. With any luck, Barry will see something funny on the television.
‘I’ve thought about what you should say,’ Barry says. ‘You should be cagey.’
‘Cagey?’
‘You should leave open the possibility that it might be true.’
‘I’m not doing that.’
‘Only a glimmer. You don’t have to hold your hands up. We just want to keep the cycle going.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s a strategy. You can’t go from pariah to prince in the blink of an eye.’
‘I don’t want to be either.’
Barry is frowning, as if there is nothing to be done about Joe Street. A lost cause or something.
‘I’ve seen it all, mate. The amount of Joe Streets I’ve called and they’ve said, “Barry, get me out of the papers.” You’re in good company.’
It’s true that Barry has built a career in damage limitation. He’s cheap, as well.
Barry straightens the duvet cover. ‘Remember, this is a charm offensive. A branding exercise.’
‘What should I say?’
‘Don’t speak about anything negative. It’s a happy occasion.’
‘Will I meet the homeless people?’
‘You should position yourself as close to them as possible.’
‘So I just hang around and hope there’s a camera?’
‘Got it.’
There is nowhere to go. In front of him is the window, the motorway and the miles of traffic. There is no escaping any of it. You can’t exactly jump out of the window and ride on the back of traffic.
‘Did you remember to moisturise your face?’ Barry says.
‘No.’
‘Just remember next time.’
*
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