'You will be aware of the delicate nature of this meeting?' said Weirdlove, before JLM could say anything.
'Oh, yes, delicate,' said Vogts. 'Like the fine hairs of a woman's pubes.'
'Yeah,' said The Amazing Mr X, in a low voice.
Weirdlove raised the sort of eyebrow that had many in the Scottish Executive reeling, but which meant nothing to the likes of Conrad Vogts.
'Yes,' said JLM, 'I rather like that. Lovely analogy. Really rather splendid.'
'No one in our parliament knows we're here with you, no one knows what we're going to talk about,' said Weirdlove, attempting added gravitas in the voice, to compensate for the fact that Vogts didn't appear to have any.
'Even I don't know what we're going to talk about,' said Vogts. 'Not that that's anything new.'
'We understand you're a bit of an expert on the Euro,' said JLM.
'I am an expert on many things,' said Vogts. 'Hamburg, the 1983 European cup final, Monty Python's Flying Circus, the comedies of the Marx Brothers. And women.'
'Yeah,' said The Amazing Mr X.
'I am also considered an expert on the Euro,' said Vogts, 'although that's probably because I speak very quickly on a subject that most people don't know enough about.'
'A tonic to hear such honesty in the political field,' said JLM.
'Ah, tonic,' said Vogts, 'I am also an expert on Indian tonic and its use as an alcoholic mixer.'
'Lovely. Champion,' said JLM. 'Look, Mr Weirdlove is going to explain where we're coming from.'
'Indeed,' said Vogts, and he turned to face him. 'I'm all ears, although that's only because the plastic surgeon misheard me. I was supposed to be all beer.'
'The thing is,' said Weirdlove, his voice shooting out even more quickly, as overcompensation for having a political interlocutor who he felt was kicking his backside, 'it is clear to us that Britain's policy of exclusion from the Euro-zone is a total disaster. It is affecting Scotland tremendously badly, and the Westminster government is moving far too slowly. We need to be decisive and audacious.'
'So what are you saying?' asked Vogts. 'You want to take Scotland into the Euro zone separately? That's not in your constitution.'
Weirdlove threw a quick sideways glance at JLM.
'Not at the moment,' said Weirdlove.
'You're going to have a referendum?' asked Vogts. 'I am much in favour of referendums. I think we should have referendums for everything. Governments should have referendums on where they're going to buy their sausages.'
'You're a big advocate of referendums then?' said Weirdlove, suspiciously.
'They are the very essence of democracy,' said Vogts. 'The rock on which political freedom is based.'
'We're not going to have one,' said JLM, loosely. 'We're going to push it through without telling anyone.'
'Lovely,' said Vogts, 'an even more fundamental political necessity. Don't tell the people anything if they're going to get in your way.'
'My thoughts exactly,' said JLM.
'I think we can do business,' said Vogts.
'Champion,' said JLM.
***
Herr Vogts left the small room thirty minutes later after reaching a broad agreement that someone would be seconded from Berlin, most likely Vogts himself, to help Weirdlove and JLM draw up plans to introduce the Euro to Scotland, completely bypassing Westminster in the process. The intention was to make the final statement with such grandeur and eloquence, and with some major European political alliances announced at the same time, that the public would be carried along in a wave of devolutionary excitement. In the meantime, JLM had to stoke the anti-English fires, which would be like peeling a banana, and investigate every legal loophole in the constitution that would help them subvert Westminster's control over Holyrood.
The financial plans would be drawn up with the help of the Deputy Finance Minister, James Eaglehawk, leaving the temporary Finance Minister, Winona Wanderlip, totally in the dark. When the fiscal coup d'état was announced, she would hear about it in the usual manner, from the press, her position would be untenable, in her own and in the public's eyes, and she would gracefully resign.
Following the Euro and further splits with Westminster, independence would be inevitable, backed by a rising swell of public opinion. JLM would be a hero and the father of the new sovereign Scotland.
A plan of the utmost cunning.
'What did you think?' said JLM, looking Barney in the eye. Waiting for words of wisdom from his latest sage.
Barney glanced at Weirdlove, who gave him one of his 'remember what I told you' looks. Barney turned back to JLM, having already determined to more or less ignore everything that Weirdlove had said. He'd already been dead, for goodness sake. What else could they do to him?
'I think it's disgracefully dishonest,' said Barney. 'You've come to power on the back of parliamentary democracy, and in the past two days I've seen repeated evidence that you intend to ride roughshod all over it. It's prescriptive government at its most unhinged. You don't give a damn about the country or the people, you're only interested in the furtherance of your own political ambitions. You have total contempt for every institution and procedure that got you where you are, and if you think I'm going to exculpate you with some two-second soundbite to make you feel good, as if you deserve plaudit for some sort of aesthetic spontaneity of thought, you're wrong.'
JLM nodded. Faint smirk of amusement at the corner of his mouth. The megalomaniac's ability to laugh at and easily dismiss home-truths
'I actually meant, what did you think of Herr Vogts?' he said.
Weirdlove steamed gently under his suit.
'Oh,' said Barney. 'Seemed like a decent enough bloke. Bit of a Mel Gibson Lethal Weapon 2 cut.'
'Lovely,' said JLM. 'Can we trust him?'
'Of course not,' said Barney. 'But then, he can't trust you.'
JLM laughed and rose from his chair. Like a flash, The Amazing Mr X was on his feet, checking the windows, watching the door, trigger finger twitching.
'Very good, Barney, very good,' said JLM. 'Come on, let's go.'
The Amazing Mr X pushed past Weirdlove, opened the door, checked the corridor, then indicated that it was safe for the party to leave the room. He walked out ahead and stood waiting. Rolling his eyes, Weirdlove breezed past him and strode purposefully up the corridor. JLM and Barney walked out together, The Amazing Mr X falling in behind.
'Barney,' said JLM, lightly taking his arm. 'Just a word. Don't ever speak to me like that again. It might just be that we send you back where you came from.'
'I don't even know where that is,' said Barney, not rising to the threat.
JLM gave him an ugly glance and upped his pace to walk quickly after Weirdlove.
'Oh, and Barney,' he said, turning under a large photograph of the Brandenberg Gate. 'Could you do me a Dean Martin '57 for my meeting with the Portuguese delegation? Apparently there's a woman as part of their team, bit of a looker, goes big for a man who can croon That's Amore.'
'Aye,' said Barney. 'No bother.'
'Champion,' said JLM, and then he strode on, came broadside with Parker Weirdlove, and immediately dropped into stern conversation.
Carry On Up The Revolution
The cabinet of the Scottish Executive was in full session. Almost full session. JLM wasn't in attendance, but then that was nothing new of late. In the three weeks since the resumption of parliament, he had not yet deigned to show his face at cabinet, having begun to think that there was little point in it. If any of his ministers said something he didn't like, he'd ignore them anyway. So what, he would voice to anyone who cared to listen, was the point of going in the first place? As First Minister, the man in control of the country's destiny, he had better things to do than listen to his government.
The difference from the norm was the absence of JLM's deputy, Fforbes Benderhook, an appallingly spineless Liberal Democrat. A man for whom political ambition went no further than sucking up to the First Minister's substant
ial butt, and who would attend cabinet on his behalf, reporting back diligently on any of the Labour members who raised even the slightest concern or dissension against any of JLM's policies.
He was the obvious one not to call to the meeting. The others, however, Winona Wanderlip suspected, were as fed up with JLM's grandstanding as was she. So the rest of the cabinet were there, with the obvious exception of Melanie Honeyfoot, who was dead, dead, dead.
They sat around the small table in Wanderlip's office. Winona, herself, at the head, and thereafter clockwise around the table: Peggy Filiben, Education, a nothing short of spectacularly attractive woman; the previously encountered Wally McLaven, Tourism, Culture & Sport, ex-Rangers, a man who thought culture was the ability to speak consecutive sentences without using the phrase 'to be fair', and who was sitting with his hand guzzling at Filiben's thigh; Malcolm Malcolm III of the Clan Malcolm, Health, ex-Westminster; Kathy Spiderman, Justice, a bizarre wee woman who would more normally have been found arguing the price of a toaster-of-uncertain-provenance down the Barrows on a Saturday morning, but who was a long-term ally of JLM's, turned bad; Trudger McIntyre, Environment and Rural Development, another futile Liberal Democrat, who had the whole Captain Mainwaring vibe to a tee; and finally, next to Wanderlip, Nelly Stratton, Parliamentary Business, a nebby wee cow.
'To be fair to the lad, JLM,' said McLaven, after Wanderlip had finished a long outburst on the trip to Brussels, which had succeeded a similar outburst on her being lumped with the Finance portfolio, 'just because we don't know what he's up to, doesn't mean it's dodgy.'
'If it's not dodgy,' said Wanderlip, 'then why not tell us what he's doing? Did you see it on News24? There were about five people turned up to listen to his speech to the European parliament. What was the point?'
'They bastards don't deserve him,' growled Kathy Spiderman, in that tone which suggested that she thought everyone in Brussels should be whipped with razor wire.
'The people of Scotland,' said Wanderlip, a group she regularly hijacked to support her views, regardless of whether or not they did, 'don't deserve for JLM to be buggering off around the world in search of fame, when he should be here addressing the issues affecting his own country.'
'Jesus Christ,' said Nelly Stratton, 'change the record.'
'What are we here for?' said Trudger McIntyre, softly, the first time he'd spoken, and they looked at him as one.
'What d'you mean?' asked Wanderlip.
'What do you do all day, Winona?' he asked. 'Plot? We're here to look after the problems affecting the Scottish people. While we're doing that, what's wrong with him promoting Scotland on the world stage?'
'Different class,' said Wally McLaven. 'To be fair to the lad McIntyre, he's got a point.'
Wanderlip looked at the two of them, then at the rest of the company, her mouth open in some amazement. She held Stratton's gaze for a second to see if she was going to get any support, but there was none forthcoming.
'Hello!' she said, with exaggeration, 'what has this man done in the past two and a half years? He's put so many restrictions on our individual powers that we can't do anything without him okaying it. For God's sake Wally, when was the last time you took a shit and didn't have to sign the toilet paper out of the stationery cupboard?'
'Jesus Christ,' said Nelly Stratton, 'every analogy wi' you has tae involve the stationery cupboard.'
Wanderlip slung some contempt her way.
'To be fair to the lad, Winnie,' said McLaven, whose judgement could be swayed by even the least persuasive argument, 'she does have a point. There's nothing happens in this building without JLM's name being on a piece of paper. I always thought it was good, solid, hands-on leadership. Really, though, there's the whole control-freak thing going on.'
'Thank you,' said Wanderlip, appalled that it had taken so long for McLaven to realise the obvious.
'Aye,' said Malcolm Malcolm III of the Clan Malcolm, 'but maybe it's because he's the most competent of the lot of us, and needs to be on top of everything.'
'Oh, for God's sake, Malcolm,' said Wanderlip, 'you can think like that if you want to, but I refuse. The man is out of control. He's got his own bloody barber now, did you hear that?'
'Aye, aye,' said McLaven, 'but to be fair to the lad, they say he does an excellent Dean Martin '57.'
'Stop it!' Wanderlip suddenly screamed, and McLaven ducked. 'Who cares? The point is, surely, that he is out of control. We have to do something about it. We have to think of something.'
'Go on, then,' said Peggy Filiben, from underneath McLaven's wandering hand. She too had, up until now, been silent. 'What's your plan?'
Wanderlip glanced to her left, checked out the look in Filiben's eyes. Then she gazed around the room. There had been voices raised in favour of JLM, but that was just from people who were afraid of him, and people too lacking in confidence to stand out from the crowd.
'We need someone to step forward. We need to act as a team, but we also need a leader to stand up to the man. Not just for our own good, but for the good of the people of Scotland.'
She looked sternly around the team. A hard look into every eye, thinking herself capable of reading the thoughts behind those eyes. Who would be brave enough, who would be spineless, and who, possibly, would be straight on the cell phone to JLM. Because, for all the discord in the ranks, she knew she'd taken a chance by inviting them all to the meeting. And part of her wanted JLM to know what she was up to, to hurry the thing up, bring their disagreement to a swift conclusion, because she felt she would ultimately triumph.
'Why don't you do it?' said Nelly Stratton. 'All mouth, nae trousers, as my mother used to say.'
'They'll see me coming a mile off,' said Wanderlip, not even looking at Stratton as she replied. Justifying herself to the others, not her accuser. 'We need someone to blindside them, someone they're not expecting.'
'I'll do it,' said the quiet, seductive voice. 'You're right. We need to stop him, before he bankrupts the whole country.'
Wanderlip looked to her left. She studied the eyes of Peggy Filiben, she saw the steel behind the outrageous good looks. It's always the women, she thought. Always. Men can talk a good game. They can act hard, but it's only ever the women who have the real balls to stand up to people.
As soon as Filiben had spoken, McLaven had withdrawn his hand. Something about a woman with real balls that makes you not want to grope her high up on the thigh.
'Good,' said Wanderlip. 'One day, the people of Scotland will thank you.'
'We'll see,' said Filiben, and the room dropped into a long silence.
***
As Wanderlip had suspected might happen, within five minutes of the emergency and clandestine cabinet meeting breaking up, JLM's phone rang and he was given the news that the cabinet as a whole, and Peggy Filiben in particular, were to mount a challenge to his authority as First Minister. JLM thanked the caller, slipped the phone into his pocket, walked up the length of the private jet which was taking him and his entourage back to Edinburgh from Brussels at the end of a productive day, and settled into deep conversation with two or three of his closest circle.
Splat!
Peggy Filiben waved to the driver, smiled and stepped down from the bus, then started walking quickly along Grenville, where it splits off the Dunbar road. It was late in the evening, and the sun had given way to a humid night. The street was deserted, the closed doors and closed curtains of houses besieging the inhabitants in their private suburban melancholy. The bus driver watched Filiben for a couple of seconds, glanced in his rear view mirror, saw that the blue Hyundi which had been following him most of the way out of the city centre had parked a few car lengths behind, then he pulled out into the road and drove on, quickly crunching his way through the gears. As he turned the corner into Blythswood, another glance in his mirror and he noticed that the Hyundi had once again moved off, then it was out of sight and he had forgotten about it.
Filiben believed in using public transport. She didn't
like the concept of private medicine or private financing of public projects. She was a good woman, a good socialist, honest, brave and forthright. And the media loved her, because she was gorgeous, and it allowed them to be fabulously patronising, which is one of the many things they enjoy. A Scottish tabloid had even offered her a couple of hundred thousand pounds to appear in their weekly magazine in her underwear. 'In immaculate taste, darlin',' the editor had said. Filiben had declined, and had marked them down for suitable retribution when she had the opportunity. Not that she was vindictive, but she hated it when people took politics lightly, and she herself had had to battle her good looks throughout her career.
And now she had just committed herself to the biggest gamble of that career. She didn't aspire to high office herself, having long held the conviction that more could be achieved from the cabinet minister positions than from the ceremonial post at the head. Indeed, if JLM had shown a little more respect for the Executive and the Parliament, she probably wouldn't have had any trouble with him jetting off around the world, playing the statesman.
She realised that Wanderlip was in it for herself, that she would use Filiben as the stalking horse, then should it get anywhere and JLM be ousted, she would move in and attempt to attain the leadership. But that was as it may be; she believed wholeheartedly that Wanderlip would be a vastly superior leader to JLM. A leader who would listen to her troops; who would trust others to do their given jobs; who would care more for her people than for her own career. She would be everything that JLM was not.
Peggy Filiben stopped at the side of the kerb. Looked left then right. The blue Hyundi was coming along the road behind her and she stayed at the edge of the kerb waiting for it to pass. As it approached, accelerating quickly, the smooth engine purring quietly through second and into third, she noticed the driver was wearing dark glasses and a woollen hat; a little odd for the hours of darkness on a sultry evening.
Her eyes flicked away, her head filled with random thoughts; of Winona Wanderlip and Jesse Longfellow-Moses, hair dye and anal implants and what to do on cold and wet Sundays in January.
The Barbershop Seven Page 88