Vote at Toad Hall

by Eddie Saint

  ‘Talk of the devil,’ he muttered under his breath as he heard Oliver Weasel presenting himself at the secretary’s desk next door. Then he painted on his most stoically calm expression and went to get the door himself.

  Toad was born to conduct business meetings. It had been in his family’s blood for generations. He knew how they worked, how they could be tweaked, that they were more like a wrestling match than a conversation. He had won contracts worth millions on the strength of a well turned phrase, and ended conflicts through careful choice of seating arrangements and menu.

  Perhaps, he thought, when this is all over I shall write a book and pass on my wisdom.

  ‘Ah, Oliver, do come through!’ he said, in his most genial tone.

  - Never let them see they have scored a hit on you. Conversely, if you see your opponent has been hit take aim and land another blow.

  As Weasel made it through the door Toad shook him firmly by the paw, placing his right hand on Weasel’s elbow.

  - A handshake should be thought of as the first thrust and parry of engagement. Be firm, but not so much as to appear brutish. A second hand to the elbow can impart the impression of being more like co-conspirators ready to solve something together

  ‘Very good of you to change your plans for me, Oliver, at such short notice.’

  - Flattery is your number one weapon. If done subtly it always disarms your opponent. Using first names makes them feel important, and an important person does not always feel the need to keep their guard up.

  Weasel smiled, shook, and waited to be shown to a seat. He had his own set of rules for business meetings, and they included keeping schtum when you know your opponent is trying to do a number on you.

  ‘Please, sit down,’ said Toad.

  - Keep control of as many of the ‘physicals’ as possible: seats, drinks, food, documents – nothing is off limits. It gives the subliminal message that you are in control of everything.

  Weasel sat where he was ushered, and kept a smile on his face. Not the smile of an opponent who knew he had landed a blow (he was keeping that smile on the inside), but an innocent, ready-for-round-two, let’s-see-what-we-can-do-together sort of smile.

  ‘Chip?’ said Toad, offering a large silver platter on which were neat stacks of delicate julienne chips. ‘Or perhaps you’d prefer some pizza?’

  Weasel scanned the dishes on the table looking for the pizza. Toad, noticing his confusion, picked up the pizza plate. Weasel inspected it. There were neat triangles of dough, perfect, equilateral triangles, only slightly bigger than a single mouthful, with a crust all the way around and a tomato sauce in the centre, topped with a mouldy looking cheese and sprinkled with something small and green. It looked like a pizza that had been made by someone with a pedigree in top restaurant kitchens, who had been told what a pizza was but had never actually seen one.

  ‘Actually, I’m watching my weight,’ he said. They were the first words he had said since he’d arrived, and he was hoping Stoat would forgive him, because now he wouldn’t be able to fill his pockets and take food back to The Stump. It was worth it, though, to see Toad trying to keep the look of disappointment off his face. The effort he must have gone to to get food suitable for the ‘ordinary bloke’.

  Well, I’m sorry sunshine, but I can play that game too…

  ‘Quite, I see,’ said Toad, starting to feel the first signs that he was losing control of the meeting. It was time to whip out the ‘number one weapon’ again. ‘Well, you don’t look like you need to watch your weight Oliver…’

  - If you find yourself disarmed in combat, resort to flattery to buy yourself time to apply a suitable counter thrust.

  ‘…but I could put you in contact with my dietician if you like. It would be no trouble.’

  Weasel hadn’t expected the meeting to be this much fun, but he could see just how hard Toad was working just to stand still. This was already turning into a better than average day, and it wasn’t even lunchtime. Maybe, later, he might just give Selina a call. See what other clothes she had in her wardrobe…

  ‘Shall we?’

  Toad was holding out a purple binder, with the word ‘TRADE’ written on the front in capital letters. It was clear to Weasel that he had touched a nerve, but he was wily enough to know that Toad still had a massive majority and that he held most of the best cards in his hand. It was time to change tack.

  ‘Of course, of course,’ he said, taking the binder and smiling. ‘I’m sorry, Toad, I’m not really used to all this pressure: the campaigning, the interviews, the front page headlines. I suppose it is what you have to do all the time, eh? For me it’s all been a bit of a whirl!’

  That seemed to hit the spot with Toad.

  ‘Well, quite,’ he said, relaxing. It was obvious to him that Weasel knew just how much of a mismatch this fight was. Maybe he should cut him a little slack.

  ‘And… maybe I will have a chip or two, to keep my energy levels up. The diet can start next week.’

  That one’s for you, Stoatey!

  I PUSHED THE files to one side and fired up my computer just to give my brain a break. I’d stared at those pages for an hour or more but still didn’t have a clue what their secret was.

  A review of the news brought nothing surprising at first glance. There was the Referendum, obviously, and the suicide bomber in Little Meadow. Oliver Weasel featured quite highly in relation to the bombing, for some reason. He had certainly managed to get his mug out and about.

  Third from top was the Tony poisoning. Claims were being made that it was an obvious Fox hit, in broad daylight in the middle of Wild Wood’s capital city. President Vulpine was already being quoted as saying the Foxes had nothing to do with it, and wasn’t it typical that Foxes always got the blame? All standard stuff.

  I checked the ‘share’ counts. I always like to look at who is trying to give wings to which stories. Obviously nothing from Wild Wood. Foxes were pushing the bomb story, and…

  ‘That’s a bit odd…’ I remember saying, looking at the spike on my screen. It showed the Fox machinery pushing anti-immigration scare stories in back water Dog districts. Dogs were pushing them too. I checked what stories they were. A quick analysis showed there were four separate stories in at least twelve local Dog news sites that were hyping up the threat of immigration on the back of the Little Meadow bombing. All sort of interesting to a journalist, although it wasn’t until a couple of days later that I saw the bigger picture it was part of.

  I shut the laptop lid, folded my arms and stared out of the window again. The clock was ticking, Buck was no doubt creeping closer, and still I was no further forward than I had been the day before.

  Mother appeared silently behind me, her reflection crystal clear on the inside of the window as the bright sunlight caught her fur.

  ‘Can I get you anything, Jay?’ she asked.

  ‘Er… a solution to this problem wouldn’t hurt,’ I said, pushing the sheets across the table to her.

  She lingered, silently scanning the pages. I know how to take a hint.

  ‘It’s a bunch of info on different comic stories and stuff. I’m just trying to make sense of it.’

  She smoothed down her apron and laughed.

  ‘Well, I never had much of a nose for comics. I always leave that to our Buster. Such a brain for made up stuff. I wish he’d show as much interest in real subjects, like they teach in school, but he always has none of it. Put a costume on it, though, and he’s a world expert!’

  I laughed with her, and then she retreated, whistling, back behind the counter, clearing the empties from a table as she passed, and I settled back down over the pages and tried to conjure up a new idea.

  I’d been pushing the pages around the tabletop for about twenty minutes when a teenage Otter wearing a green canvas cap and with a hair fringe flattened over one eye sidled over.

  ‘What’cha got there?’ said the newcomer.

  Back in The Stump Stoat was trying a ‘pizza’. He held it
up quizzically to Weasel, who just shrugged and said, ‘Nope. Me neither.’

  Once Weasel had flattered Toad back in Toad Hall the mood in the meeting had changed. They’d had a good discussion about Trade figures, and then Toad had offered to send the binders round in his ministerial saloon, since there were twelve of them this time. He had the buffet brunch packed up and sent over too. He really couldn’t have been more helpful.

  ‘Ollie,’ said Stoat, as he tried to recreate a chip tower with soggy julienne fries, ‘why did you send the journalist out to photograph the binders being delivered?’

  Weasel took a pull on his first Pint of Best of the day and showed Stoat a smug, self-satisfied grin. ‘Oh you saw that, did you?’ he said, revelling in his earlier speed of thought. ‘And what was your reading of the situation, princess?’

  ‘I… guess you wanted voters to see how much detail you are having to wade through,’ said Stoat, and then he remembered that the last binders he had brought back had only been used as a foot-rest. ‘Um… or at least you want voters to think you are working hard on the paperwork.’

  ‘Not a bad effort, Stoatey,’ said Weasel cheerfully. ‘I’d give you B plus for that, in campaign school. However, to get an A you’ll need to think more devilishly.’

  Weasel gave Stoat a little thinking time while he fired up CryptoChat on his phone. It had been just over a day since he had last heard from Vulpine, despite having sent him regular updates. He had been guarded about saying too much about Pincer’s involvement, what with the old history between Dogs and Foxes since the Second Orchid War, but beyond that he’d given regular and thorough updates, as requested in their initial meeting. The trouble was, if you keep talking into a void you start to wonder if you are really talking to anyone else at all, or if you are just talking to yourself. Perhaps if he could see some evidence of what Vulpine was doing with the information it might settle his mind. He resolved to press the point with Vulpine and opened up a new message window.

  ‘Greetings from The Stump. Not much new to report but I thought I’d just check in with you to say that, as I’m sure you know, our focus is ‘Trade’ toady. And as for what goes on in Toad’s mind, all I can tell you is he is a real push-over in a meeting. The silent treatment knocks him off balance easily, and he is a total sucker for flattery. Too bad he’s retiring at the end of the week. You could have made something of that in your next talks.’

  He hit SEND and stared as his typing materialised as a new coloured bubble at the bottom of the screen. He scrolled up through the previous messages. He counted twelve from himself and none from Vulpine since their meeting in the back seat of the black Sedan. Was he still there? Was everything ok?

  Weasel set about writing a new message.

  ‘Sorry, greetings again. Still in The Stump. Just about to plan the day’s round of interviews. Listen, I hope you don’t mind me saying, and I know you are not expecting payment or anything, but could you give me a clue that you are still getting these messages? It might help me if I knew what you were up to. I could maybe add to the message and get it some traction. Anyway, just a thought. I’m working hard at my end. It would be good to know I’m not wasting my time with these CryptoChats. Ta-ra! W’

  Just as he sent the new message Stoat piped up.

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘Hmmph?’ said Weasel, distracted momentarily from worrying about Vulpine.

  ‘The photo. I give up. What was the plan?’

  The chance to show off his skills drew Weasel back into his happy place.

  ‘My plan, dear Stoatey, was to tell voters what sort of devious, underhand tactics Triple T is prepared to pull off to secure his victory.’

  Stoat was still confused. ‘And in terms a simple Stoat can understand…?’

  ‘Picture the Headlines: CAVIAR MUNCHING TOAD BRIBES OUR CHAMPION WITH POSH CHIPS, FOOD FOR VOTES, BRUNCH MUNCHER HAS HAD HIS CHIPS, and so on. Is that simple enough for you?’

  Stoat marvelled at his friend’s ingenuity.

  ‘So, it was the food, not the folders!’

  ‘And…’ said Weasel, ‘I have complete deniability. Not me who writes the headlines, guv. That’s what you get with a free press, etcetera, et-blooming-cetera.’

  Everyone likes to reveal their genius ideas to a devoted acolyte, and Weasel was no different. The only thing that spoiled his moment was the small, soft ‘ping’ from his phone, the sort of ‘ping’ he knew only CryptoChat made. Afraid that he might have pushed Vulpine a little too far, he picked up his phone with trepidation. There was one new message. It read,

  ‘Dear Oliver, please ask Jeff for a pint of water, a desert spoon and a salt cellar.’

  Weasel tried to scroll, to see if he’d missed anything, but there was nothing. He looked around, half wondering if Vulpine himself might be hiding somewhere in the pub, but all he saw was a table of City regulars and a larger than average number of journalists. He read the message again.

  ‘…pint of water…’

  ‘…spoon…’

  ‘…salt…’

  Stoat could see his friend was suddenly perplexed, and asked him what was up, but Weasel put his finger to his lips and then pointed to his phone in a way Stoat had come to understand could only mean one thing. Or, more precisely, one Fox.

  Weasel dutifully went to the bar and got Jeff to supply the required items. Then he came back and set them on the table in front of him.

  Now what?

  ‘ping’

  With trepidation, he opened the new message.

  ‘Well done.’ How does he know I’ve just done it??? ‘Now, put a tiny pinch of salt in the glass and stir it well.’

  Again, the message was short. Too short for Weasel’s liking. It was starting to give him the creeps. However, in the absence of a better plan, and most definitely NOT wanting to annoy Vulpine, he stirred a little salt in to the water.

  ‘ping’

  No longer surprised at Vulpine’s powers, he read the new message.

  ‘Take a sip from the glass then pour the water away. Keep the glass.’

  Weasel drank from the glass, grimaced, then looked around for somewhere to pour the water. In the end he poured it into a plant pot containing a fake cheese plant.

  There was a pause. No notification rang out on his phone. He picked it up to check he hadn’t accidentally turned the sound off.

  ‘ping’

  Is Vulpine playing with me?

  Almost as if under a hypnotic spell Weasel opened the fourth message.

  ‘Good, now you must do two final things for me. First, lick your finger once you have run it around the inside of the glass. Second, send Stoat for a mop. That plant pot has fake soil and a hole in the bottom.’

  Far beyond being confused Weasel did as he was told. He just dabbed his finger on his tongue, already knowing how unpleasantly salty it would taste. Stoat cleared up the puddle by the cheese plant and Weasel stared at his half finished Pint of Best, wishing he could swig it to get rid of the salty taste, but not sure if he was allowed. He waited for the next message.

  He waited some more.

  And some more.

  The salty taste was unbearable. He took an executive decision and, albeit with trepidation for the consequences, necked the rest of his pint.

  Nothing happened to him.

  He felt like a bomb disposal expert who had just cut the correct wire.

  The beer did at least take the taste away. But what about Vulpine? He ran through what had happened. First he had asked if Vulpine was still reading the messages. Then, in no uncertain manner, Vulpine had proved that he was. Perhaps that was the only answer he was going to get.

  And then it came.

  ‘ping’

  Like a moth to a flame Weasel’s finger pressed the notification. It read:

  ‘Think of me like salt. Even when you can’t see me I am present everywhere. When there appears to be nothing left at all you can still tell that I am present. Don’t expect to see me. Don’t d
oubt that I am there.

  .

  .

  .

  .

  .

  And yes, I agree.

  Caviar is horribly salty.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  ‘Look, I don’t have all the facts. Who does?’

  Weasel was into his third interview of the afternoon and was warming to his task nicely.

  ‘But what I do know, because I can see it with my own eyes, is that immigrants are blowing folks up in Little Meadow.’

  He let that one sink in for two seconds. Long enough to act like a big, verbal highlighter pen, but not so long that its tenuous links to his main argument could be questioned.

  ‘And it’s not just on our doorstep. No, I wish it was, if only for the sake of our good canine friends across the lake.’

  Keep the ideas dancing, like wasps at a picnic, until folks start believing it is the picnic that is rubbish. That was his main tactic. Don’t let the waspish ideas settle in one place for too long or they might get clobbered.

  ‘Spare a thought for those Dogs all over their country, going about their ordinary lives, who feel so under threat by immigrants that they are stockpiling food and heading for the hills!’

  He sent another random wasp dive-bombing the picnic. Weasel couldn’t remember the last time he’d had this much fun. The news crews were lapping it up and the beer was flowing.

  Happy, happy days! But, no time to dwell. Time for the big finale…

  ‘Do you know what I think? And I know I’m not a Toad, or a politician, I don’t mix with the elite in their private clubs, so I don’t normally get to have my little voice heard…’

  Three seconds pause this time: that was a lot to take in.

  ‘…I think it’s time we stopped letting politicians and experts rule our lives. It’s time we took back control of our borders before the awful things happening across the LEAF League and beyond start happening in our beloved Wild Wood. When we vote at the end of this week it will be our first chance, and maybe also our last chance…’