by G D Harper
The exit polls confirmed the party’s collapse. The prime minister-to-be gave her acceptance speech at her constituency in the wee small hours, promising that the Act Now! ‘experiment’, as she called it, would be a wake-up call for her party, and no doubt the others as well, never to take voters for granted ever again.
A new dawn of democracy was breaking in Britain. Act Now! would never threaten it again.
epilogue
I looked in the mirror, concentrating as I slid a collar stay into my crisp white dress-shirt, the unfolded cuffs draped around my wrists. I smiled to myself, remembering the photo of Peter Capaldi in the same pose, the day I met Tanya. I had been co-nominated for Best Investigative Reporting at the British Journalism Awards. There was a taxi waiting downstairs, sent by the organisers to make sure I was there on time. I managed to make a half-decent attempt to put on a tie for the first time in years, but the cufflinks defeated me. I turned to Bobbie and smiled.
‘Can you help me with these?’
Bobbie popped them through the buttonholes and stood back to take a good look at me.
‘You scrub up well for an old bloke,’ she said. ‘I’m going to feel a complete scruff at this do of yours.’
‘Nonsense, you look great. Means a lot to me, you schlepping down from Scoraig for the ceremony. And I bet there will be a lot of West End producers wanting to grab a word with you at the party afterwards. I’ve told them all that they have to talk to you first before anyone gets to put The Art of Deception on the stage in London.’
‘They’d have to do some pretty impressive persuading. I thought long and hard about coming back to this life after my meltdown at the opening night, and honestly, I’m still not ready. I’m on the sleeper back to Scotland tonight, to get back to my quiet life as soon as possible.’
I tried to hide my disappointment. ‘The offer’s there if you want it, but not for much longer. It’s hot property, that play of mine, and people are queuing up to be part of it. If you’re so afraid of the bright lights, why did you decide to come down here?’
‘Are you kidding? Miss the chance to finally meet Tanya? Couldn’t pass that up. I want to give her the advice I would have given her if she’d ever asked me about speaking out about Act Now!. That whatever schemes you come up with, the best course of action is always to run a country mile from them.’
‘Just as well for the country’s sake that you never got that chance. Do me a favour: if anybody asks you, at least try to pretend that I’m a serious and sensible journalist who always thinks things through. I’ve got a reputation to try to hang on to now.’
Bobbie went to gather her things; she noticed piles of paper strewn over my writing desk.
‘What’s all this, Duncan? It looks like the beginnings of a novel to me. Have you started writing again?’
I blushed. ‘I was going to tell you once I’d got the first draft done. Bloody useless at keeping a secret. Yes, I am. Being forced into writing that play under enormous time pressure seems to have got rid of my writer’s block. And I know it sounds strange, but meeting Michael Mitchell, seeing how he could put his personal feelings about me aside to champion my cause, made me feel differently about him. The guilt I’ve always felt over what happened to him seems to have evaporated.’
Bobbie changed the subject. ‘And Tanya, she’s done well out of this, hasn’t she?’
‘Incredible. She’s a dream come true for the media. Glamourous, sexy spy who brings down the government, and smart to boot. She’s got an agent now. He’s lining up all sorts of things for her on the telly. There’s even a chance she’ll be on the reboot of Strictly.’
I glanced at my watch. ‘We’d better get going. Don’t want to miss my date with destiny. If I win, that is.’
Bobbie refused to believe that I had no clue if I’d won Best Investigative Reporting, but it was the truth. Makes for more drama, apparently, if everyone’s kept in the dark.
It was an hour-long taxi ride to the awards ceremony. I was glad someone else was paying. On the way, I told Bobbie the plot for my new book, a historical drama in which an Elizabethan courtier, Sir Henry Lee, gets his comeuppance for trying to overthrow the monarchy.
‘His portrait hangs in the National Portrait Gallery. Scary-looking guy; I never liked him much, so I wanted to make him suffer. I was told once I should try my hand at historical fiction, so here I am.’
We chatted as we drove through the London streets, talking about the future, teasing and laughing at each other, as if it was half a century ago. Just what I needed to put me at ease for the big night ahead.
When we arrived at the awards venue, Tanya was waiting for us, resplendent in a figure-hugging designer dress. I made the introductions and watched as she and Bobbie chatted like long-lost friends.
‘I think Duncan is trying to stop himself looking too much like cream-loving cat,’ Tanya said to Bobbie. ‘Centre of attention and a babe for each arm.’
We went into the glitzy ballroom. I felt a pang of regret that Nigel had decided not to come along. The plan had been for Tanya, me and him to go up on stage if we won the award. But he promised he’d be watching at home. I thought of him swinging in his chair, and that made me smile.
The three of us joined Simon Green, Alex and Sam at our table and the ceremony got underway. I was pleased our award was early in the proceedings. The words Best Investigative Reporting appeared on the screen behind the stage, and the compère went up to the microphone.
‘This has been a tumultuous year for politics,’ she said, ‘and never has the freedom of the press been more important in holding politicians and political parties to account. To announce the winner of this category is a man who has spent fifteen years fighting injustices and righting wrongs in our prisons and courtrooms. Ladies and gentlemen, Michael Mitchell.’
I knew in that instant that we’d won, but my main concern was for Bobbie sitting next to me. Michael walked onto the stage, sprightly for his advanced years, and half the audience stood up as everyone applauded. I turned to Bobbie. A rictus grin was fixed on her face for the benefit of the cameras, her arms making a clapping motion, but her palms not touching each other.
‘I don’t fucking believe it,’ she hissed at me through clenched teeth. ‘Did you know about this?’
‘Hadn’t a clue,’ I replied, also keeping a grin etched on my face. ‘Just as big a surprise to me. Honest, Bobbie.’ I stopped clapping and turned to hear what he was about to say.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, this has indeed been a year when investigative reporting has shaped the political agenda,’ Michael Mitchell said. ‘But it could have easily been the last year that this would have been possible. We have seen the dangers of becoming so obsessed with the threats to our ways of life that we allow the government to pass laws that restrict the very freedoms they tell us they are trying to protect. I’m delighted that one of the first actions of the new government was to repeal the Dissemination of Terrorism Act, a law that very nearly prevented tonight’s winners from telling their story.’
There was a round of applause; I wasn’t sure if I should join in. In the end, I just grinned at Tanya.
Michael waited until it died down, then continued.
‘Not only that, it also put them in danger of losing their liberty and even their lives. It was a good day for democracy and freedom when all charges against tonight’s winners were dropped.’ His voice rose against the applause. ‘There can be no doubt as to who the winners of tonight’s award should be. Richard Foxe, Tanya Petrenko and Nigel Stockton.’
Tanya and I went up on the stage, the standing ovation ringing in our ears. I thanked Michael from the podium for his help in the story; he gave a gracious nod. Then I thanked Nigel in his absence, as well as Alex, Sam, Simon, all the people who’d played a part.
‘And finally,’ I said, ‘I’d like to thank Bobbie Sinclair.’ I looked straight at
Michael Mitchell. ‘When the legal pressure was at its greatest to prevent us telling this story, she also took the personal risk of putting on a play that revealed the story behind Act Now!. She should also be on this stage tonight.’
‘Then I think she should be,’ said Michael. ‘Roberta, would you like to come up on stage?’
I looked over at Bobbie, horrified by what I’d just done. Michael had deliberately used the formal version of her name, the one that only he used back in the 1970s, taking the three of us back to that time. Bobbie was shaking her head, affecting modesty. But Alex, Sam and Simon were having none of it. They pulled her from her seat as the clamour for her to come up to the stage continued unabated. With a reluctant shrug, she walked forward.
I got a look that would curdle milk as she passed me, when her back was to the audience. Michael stepped forward and shook her hand. She gave him a stare that had more than forty years of pain caught up inside it. Michael stood back, his arms stretched out wide, giving a distant, unfocused smile, then leant forward and whispered something in her ear. Bobbie gave the smallest of nods and she walked over and stood next to me, and we waited for the applause to die down.
‘Remind me to take you outside and kill you when we get off this stage,’ she whispered.
When we walked back to our seats, the adrenaline was still coursing through my veins. As Tanya sat down, Simon leaned over and squeezed her hand. She smiled at him and raised an eyebrow. No doubt I’d find out what that was all about later.
The show was over at ten thirty, giving Bobbie just over an hour to catch her train. We walked out to the hotel lobby for her to organise a taxi.
‘So, go on then. What did he say to you?’ I had been waiting for her to tell me, but couldn’t contain myself any longer.
‘He said always forgive your enemies; there’s nothing that annoys them more. Oscar Wilde, I think.’
‘He’s got a point. Unless you let go, realise what’s in the past can stay in the past, you can’t forgive yourself, can’t move forward. Forgive what he did to you, but don’t forget it.’
Bobbie looked thoughtful. ‘You’re right, Duncan. We’ve both spent too long being imprisoned by our past. It’s time to put it behind us. Time to forgive Michael Mitchell and stop spending our lives running from our demons. Maybe I should put on your play in the West End after all, and invite him to the opening. We’ll see.’
And with that, she gave me a goodbye hug and headed back to Scoraig.
Thank you!
Thanks for reading A Friend in Deed. I hope you enjoyed it. If you did, it would be great if you could post a review. Every review, no matter how short, helps authors find new readers. You might also be interested to know about Love’s Long Road. It is set in the 1970s and tells the story of Duncan’s friend, Bobbie.
I am currently working on my next book, Silent Money, telling Michael Mitchell’s story and how he became a crime lord in 1970s Britain. If you would like to know when it will be published, just drop me an email.
If you would like to contact me directly to let me have any comments on any of my books, you can email me at [email protected]. If you belong to a book club and would like to discuss one of them, I would be happy to join you via Skype for a Q&A at the end of your discussion.
Best wishes.
GD Harper
Acknowledgements
Thanks to Elena Kravchenko for her inspiration and writing advice. And to Liz Allen, Sue Dawson, Jill Fricker and Trevor Hadley for their detailed and perceptive feedback on the story. Grateful appreciation to Seith Ireland for his input on the legal scenes, and the numerous bloggers and websites who provided me with snippets of information here and there, especially Wikipedia. However, any errors or omissions are mine alone.
I’m also deeply indebted to Debi Alper, Helen Baggot, Sheena Billett and Michael Faulkner for their editing and proofreading, and to Matador and Spiffing Covers for their help with book production.
And finally, thanks to Agnes for her love and support. I wouldn’t have been able to write this book without you.