The Knives

by Richard T. Kelly

  In Cabinet proper, Blaylock briefed colleagues by rote on his agenda for the bi-monthly Consilium in Brussels where he would meet with his European counterparts. He told the table he would be pressing for bilateral agreements on restricting free movement rights within the EU. No one believed he would achieve that. He told them he would push Germany to release advance passenger data from its airlines. He didn’t even believe himself on that one. Everyone in the room knew that to make a fuss of principles in Europe was a mere performance. ‘Serious concerns’ were to be acknowledged, not addressed; a ‘coherent European response’ was a non sequitur; an ‘action plan’ was no such thing. A ‘working party’ was the best, dreariest option one could expect. Thus Blaylock went through the motions.

  *

  At Shovell Street Adam Villiers and Brian Shoulder came to see him, Villiers with an update on the absconded risk certificate Haseeb Muthana. ‘We believe he’s got as far as the North Waziristan borderland. He may have gravitated toward the village nearest to the training camp he attended five years ago.’

  Blaylock merely nodded, hopeful that Muthana, having dragged himself so far from sight, might also be put out of mind.

  ‘On the subject of the Free Briton Brigade …? Something of note, perhaps. I had begun to wonder – in light of the sophisticated design of their website, their growing links to international organisations – who was paying for their paper-clips, as it were? Obviously they have some keen and voluble activists, this Gary Wardell for one … However, I wasn’t persuaded it was adequate to keep their gravy train in motion. Then this man lately began to append his name to their public pronouncements.’ Villiers slid a landscape ten-by-eight photo across the table. ‘Do you recognise him by any chance?’

  Blaylock peered closely at a fifty-ish man with crinkled features under a tweedy flat cap, dressed as for a football match in a Harrington jacket.

  ‘His name is Duncan Scarth, he’s a bit of a whiz in commercial property, a millionaire many times over. Has donated to the Conservative Party in years gone by. Keeps homes in Geneva and Oslo, but also in your constituency. He’s from your neck of the woods …’

  With an aperture thus prised open, Blaylock now felt the past flood in. ‘Oh yeah. My god. We were at school together. He’s got to be five years older than me, mind you. But, yeah – he was an entrepreneur alright, used to run his own tuck-shop at break-times. I don’t remember him banging on about sending the buggers back, but that’s not to say he didn’t hold those views …’

  ‘Has he tried to contact you lately?’

  ‘Not that I know of. Do you expect him to?’

  Villiers shrugged, reclaiming the photograph. ‘No, no. Just a thought. Given that connection.’

  *

  Blaylock prompted Mark Tallis to his feet as Geraldine showed Diane Cleeve into the office, at her side the big shaven-headed man Blaylock remembered from the previous week’s memorial service.

  ‘Mr Blaylock, this is Pastor Ruddock. I joined his congregation recently and we’ve been working together on certain projects.’

  Blaylock accepted the powerful handshake of the pastor, beside whom Mrs Cleeve was birdlike, his bulk packing out the seams of his dark suit. Yet Blaylock did sense some kind of mindful rapport between them, as he found himself a little guiltily picturing their running a pub together in some seaside town.

  ‘Thank you for making time for me.’

  ‘Always, Mrs Cleeve. Please, sit.’

  She beheld him with the frowning directness he well knew. ‘First thing you ought to know, as of this week I am quitting Remember the Victims, that association will be at an end.’

  ‘I see. A big step. Can I ask, are you—?’

  ‘It’s time to move on. Other people will take it forward, I don’t doubt, but from my side the work’s done.’

  ‘They’ll miss your leadership.’

  ‘I don’t think so. It can go on being what it is, which is a victim support group. What I’ve come to feel is, if you’re not careful then it keeps you a victim. Nothing changes. What I’ve observed, Mr Blaylock, is that years go by and people stay angry and bitter, and what they suffered just defines who they are. And that’s stifling, I’d say. You need to find a way to breathe again …’

  ‘Well, I certainly respect that—’

  ‘The second thing I want to speak with you about is Jakub Reznik.’

  ‘In what regard? Is it his minimum term?’

  ‘A month back I got a letter from him, and the other week I went to visit him in prison.’

  Blaylock had been startled. ‘What – was in the letter?’

  ‘An apology. Not his first. You’ll recall he tried to cut his wrists last year, and the chaplain who saw him told me he was full of remorse. I didn’t care, obviously. I’d heard he’d been violent since he went in. I’d thought, excuse me, but what can you do with a bastard like that?’

  ‘It’s a special problem of the life sentence,’ Pastor Ruddock spoke up. ‘Prisons got their own culture. As a lifer you carry that stigma, nothing you do means anything. So, what you get is worse violence.’

  ‘This letter.’ Mrs Cleeve paused, uncharacteristically. ‘Reznik, he said he’d taken Jesus as his saviour – that he must have had the devil in him, when he done when he done to Lisa? And he’d been praying to God for forgiveness, but he didn’t think that was “possible”. So he’d started praying to Lisa instead.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’ said Blaylock, fearing he would lose the thread.

  ‘He begun praying to my daughter? Being as how that’s who he sinned against. And he said that one night, in his cell, he’d heard Lisa’s voice speaking back to him. Saying he’d done a despicable thing, but it was in his hands to redeem himself. As a human being. Before God.’

  ‘Does the prison have an opinion of his mental state?’

  ‘Ah, you think he’s barmy?’ Mrs Cleeve looked to Pastor Ruddock, who cleared his throat sizably.

  ‘You could see it another way, sir. Which is that he’d come to a proper view of his sins – a spiritual understanding, if you get me? There’s a sentence on all of our souls, sir, then one day we die, and sentence is passed. Some men, they don’t see that – or they see it too late. But them what sees it in time …?’

  Pastor Ruddock looked to Mrs Cleeve, who resumed. ‘Yeah, like I say. I went to see him – Reznik. I felt driven to it, is what I’d say. I sat across from him like I’m sitting across from you now. And he sat there, sobbing, like his old man at the trial. Looked about as broken down as his old man, too, so he did. And, I tell you, I could believe he had the devil in him when he killed Lisa? ’Cos there’s nothing there any more. Just this wretch of a man, all eaten up. I looked at him and I thought, what he’s done to my life, how he lives with it, how I live with it … And part of me thought, how could he dare? And another part—’

  Mrs Cleeve stopped, looked aside, exhaled heavily.

  ‘You think of all you’ve been through – because you’ve only got this life, just this one – and what you do with it – I sat there and, I felt something rise inside me, almost lifting right out of me? As powerful as that. And I thought, “Is this what forgiveness is?” I’m all for punishment, see. He’s been punished, Reznik, like he should. Most likely he’ll die in prison. But I’ve got to thinking now – about forgiveness, what it can do?’

  Blaylock saw that, as intently as Mrs Cleeve was looking at him, Pastor Ruddock’s gaze was equally fixed. ‘Just as repentance is a true Christian idea, Mr Blaylock, forgiveness is a gesture of true goodness. It has wonder-working power.’

  ‘Forgiveness,’ said Mrs Cleeve. ‘I want to encourage it in people. I want to encourage it in me. And what the European Court’s saying it wants? To give a life prisoner a chance of a review of their sentence? See if they’ve changed, if there’s any good there? I want to support that. I want to say, okay, maybe a person can atone. So that’s what I’m doing now. And I’d like your support.’

  Blaylock had listened in
a state of mounting discomfiture. ‘Mrs Cleeve, first … I obviously respect the sentiments you express. But it’s the settled view of this country that certain crimes merit whole-life orders, and that how long those who have killed should spend in prison is a matter for our Parliament and our courts. It’s not possible for me to endorse your thinking as you ask.’

  ‘Did I not hear you lately talking about, what – “restorative justice”? Respecting the victim’s wishes? Thought you were all for that?’

  ‘For petty crimes by kids who didn’t know better. Not murder. A bereaved parent could be sat where you are, demanding I bring back hanging. I’d only say what I say to you, our courts administer justice.’

  ‘You’ve got the power, haven’t you, to review a life sentence? On compassionate grounds? You can pardon people if it came to it?’

  Blaylock shook his head. ‘I can allow a terminally ill prisoner to die at home, not inside. Pardons are for the innocent, Mrs Cleeve.’

  ‘You know, that almost seems a waste to me.’

  Blaylock felt a desperate need to shift the discussion onto ground where he might feel firmer. ‘Have you considered that this decision of yours might impact on the valuable work you’ve done with Remember the Victims, the solace it’s given people?’

  ‘If people were consoled, they were consoled. This is something I’m doing for me. Who’s to say it won’t be just as valuable?’

  ‘And, forgive me, but – have you considered the possibility Reznik was playing some sort of stratagem?’

  ‘Of course. I’m not a fool. I made a judgement. And I can tell, Mr Blaylock, you ain’t comfortable with it. You’re rather my position stayed the same. Closer to your position, yeah? “Tough on crime” and that. So if we have our photo taken together it’s like we’re saying the same thing. Well, my position is what it is now, and it’s up to you if you still want to stand beside me.’

  As Blaylock groped for a response Mark Tallis leaned forward. ‘It will be a tough position for the general public to accept, Mrs Cleeve. In fact, it could get quite tough on you.’

  ‘Tough? Do me a favour. After all I been through? I’ve told my mum what I’m doing, my ex-husband – they’re in bits about it. So what do I care what a load of strangers think? Is that all you care about?’ She focused wholly on Blaylock. ‘I’m talking about rehabilitation, the chances of that. Do you not believe in it? I’m appealing to you as a man.’

  ‘I’m sorry to say, in this office I hold … I don’t get the luxury of what you’re describing – of just doing the things I happen to believe in that I might think are right and good.’

  It seemed then to be Mrs Cleeve’s turn to display incredulity. ‘My god, don’t say that. That’s a desperate thing to say. How can you sit there and say that?’

  ‘I’m not sure’, Blaylock said quietly, ‘what else we can discuss.’

  ‘No, me neither.’ She stood, deeply dissatisfied, and Pastor Ruddock stood too, albeit with a look that suggested he had truly expected no better.

  ‘I’m sorry I can’t do as you ask. I hope – you might yet think some more about this.’

  ‘Are you serious? After all what I told you. No. It’s interesting, but, the sense I get of how you make your decisions. What your priorities are? More people ought to know, I think.’

  *

  As Blaylock retook his seat Tallis looked up from absorption. ‘Well, that was insane.’

  Blaylock sighed. ‘It’s an unfortunate end to – an association.’

  ‘I can’t believe how she tried to box you in on the restorative justice thing.’

  ‘She’s … a tough character.’

  ‘Not as tough as her minder. The so-called pastor? My guess would be that’s a man with excellent reason to believe in forgiveness …’

  ‘Listen, Mark – I don’t totally disdain the view she’s arrived at … I just don’t think it will make sense to anyone but her.’

  ‘That’s her choice. My concern, patrón, is if she decides to make trouble for you. I just think possibly you said too much? Essentially you did tell her that you do a bunch of things you don’t actually believe in. You think she wouldn’t use that against you down the line?’

  ‘Mark, howay, don’t me make feel worse than I do already.’

  Tallis only shrugged his shoulders as if to say it couldn’t be helped.

  *

  Come 6 p.m. he was alone with his papers for the Brussels Consilium when Geraldine knocked and entered with a shy look of a kind he rarely saw.

  ‘Um, David, some nice news, the Criterion magazine just mailed to say congratulations, they’ve chosen you as their “Politician of the Year”.’

  He managed a chuckle, and joined her by the door to take receipt of the citation as contained in an email she had printed out.

  Blaylock’s record as Home Secretary is looking heavyweight: crime and immigration down, also the Home Office’s unwieldy budget. He routinely knocks Martin Pallister around at the despatch box, and we loved his message at Tory Conference: he reaches parts of the electorate other Tories don’t. As and when Paddy Vaughan stands down we think Blaylock is worth a punt for leader, if he can deliver the knockout blows to his rivals.

  Perusing what struck him as claptrap he wandered out into the corridor, feeling the familiar sense of desertion about the place – until he nearly collided with a security guard who nodded to him, somewhat fretful, in the manner of a new start.

  ‘Where’s Fusi got to?’ Blaylock asked. ‘You know Fusi?’

  ‘Przepraszam, I, sorry …’ The guard shrugged, sounded Polish.

  ‘Never mind. At ease …’

  8

  On Thursday afternoon he was driven in full convoy out of Westminster and down the M4 to Heathrow, where red-suited and glossily made-up ladies conducted him to the VIP suite. Offered a glass of champagne, he requested water. Something about the superfluity of European excursions inclined Blaylock to frugality; but he had to concede his usual defeat once a limo was bearing him and his party a hundred yards across the tarmac to British Airways Flight 397.

  Three hours later he was ensconced at the Brussels Plaza, splashing water on his face over a marble basin in which he felt a man could conceivably drown. There was a sumptuous beige-bronze blankness to the décor of the room; his emperor-sized bed struck him as pointlessly expansive.

  After texting an update on his arrival to Sir Michael Roebuck, the UK’s chief civil servant in these parts, he lay back atop the bedcovers, clicked on the television, and surfed idly through the hotel orientation package, CNN, News 24 and the global stations.

  He dallied for a little over some breathless coverage of a film awards ceremony from London’s South Bank: handsome types in evening wear parading down a red carpet lit up by camera flashes. Mildly diverted by the effort to recognise any of the talent, he then sat up from the bed as if shot, seeing Jennie – in the sheer dress he had so admired – standing at the side of Nick Gilchrist, he in black tie, nodding and absorbing the attention as though it had to be ruefully expected. Jennie looked lovely, and mildly abashed, then she was gone.

  So it’s official, he thought, feeling a coldness in his chest cavity. Moments later he was in the grip of burning resentment, of hatred for a rival, of bewilderment over what in god’s name Jennie saw in such a man over himself. The whole situation was demeaning, unmanning, infuriating. He pressed a hard palm to his temple and exhaled.

  Watch yourself, pal. Just … watch it.

  He shut off the TV and spent some dour moments staring at the big rococo gold-leaf mirror that showed him, marooned and morose, amid the redundant splendour. A sense of futility suffused him by a little and a little. He felt no relish for his work come the morning, and miserably little appetite for anything else besides.

  His phone pulsed. His first instinct was to chuck it at the velveteen wastepaper basket. He lifted it and saw a text from Abigail Hassall. Are you in Brussels? Me too. Might we meet? AH

  After considering for s
ome minutes his options, his duties and his sense of what was prudent, he tapped out a reply. Lovely idea. Let me get through tomorrow’s hostilities and we’ll see what can be done. DB

  *

  ‘Our expectations are modest, of course,’ Sir Michael murmured to Blaylock in his unreconstructed smoker’s gravel. ‘But who knows how the chips will fall when honest Lithuania’s in the chair?’

  Roebuck sat by him in the concentric charmed circle of the conference room, the multiple advisors and attachés confined to the outer ringside seats. Yet there was no position that struck Blaylock as one of executive authority – not even Lithuania’s – for everything in the great Europa was pre-fixed and made frictionless, a sequence of scripted roundtables and conveyor-belt photo opportunities, a train, nonetheless, that some parties seemed never to want to get off.

  He endured it by the company of Roebuck, ex-investment banker, and to Blaylock’s eyes as effective an operator as any Cabinet Minister he had known, rightly renowned for a pawky effectiveness in negotiating and horse-trading, above all for keeping up the desirable closeness with the Germans on a number of key policies. Alas for Blaylock, said policies were all about tight budgets and liberal markets, and nothing to do with borders, bodies or security.

  Karl Giesler, Blaylock’s German counterpart, at least offered his view with the grace of a sorrowful smile. ‘The UK is not alone in wanting its welfare systems unmolested. But we must respect what we have made here by consensus, yes? No two-tier Europe.’

  Lydia Schmit of Luxembourg was more waspish. ‘Our rules are good rules. Yet Britain pleads exception, as if the rest of us are inadequate somehow …’

  In the chair, Lithuania pondered. Wordings were tried out, typed and passed around. Ultimately all member states agreed that free movement was a ‘core value’ of their Europa, but that at some point in the next year a working party might report on how the rules, so very good, so very agreed, came to be abused. With that, the parade went by.