‘Three!’ The studio manager counted down the last two numbers on her fingers.
‘Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to Guest of the Week. Tonight’s guest is Tobias Durbridge, MP, who has ambitions to become this country’s first Nought Prime Minister after the general election next month. The mind boggles!’ Ken raised his eyebrows as if sharing a private joke with his viewers before he turned to face me. I acknowledged him with a professional smile, ignoring his last snarky remark.
‘So tell me, Tobey, how does it feel to be the first Nought to stand a real chance of becoming this country’s Prime Minister?’
Yawn-snore! How many times was I going to be asked that unimaginative question? Jesus, it was so boring to be asked that over and over. ‘How does it feel to be the first Nought blah-blah?’ Pfft! As I am, was and always will be a Nought, how the hell can I compare it to being anything else? And the thing that pissed me off the most? I really couldn’t remember any Cross political candidate being asked how it felt to be a Cross doing the same job. No Cross was asked what it was like to be the Cross anything. That was just taken as the default position. It was as if the rest of us who were WAME – white and mixed-ethnic – were aberrations. And how much did I hate that acronym? How insulting was that? Crosses were one group and everyone else got lumped into the WAME category like we were all one big, homogenous mass and not worthy of distinct categorization. We Noughts were always being accused of playing the race card. If the Crosses would stop dealing it, I would be more than happy to stop playing it.
‘I would deem it an honour to be elected Prime Minister of our great country. It would mean the electorate had faith in my abilities and my determination to get the job done.’
Dan and his battalion of media trainers had taught me that, far from trying to downplay my Noughtiness, as they mockingly called it, I should use it, abuse it, lean into it and make sure it was in everyone’s face.
‘I believe the people of this country are ready for something new. A new perspective, a new vision. I hope they see me as the new broom that will sweep away the old complacent, stagnant practices.’
Ken, move on, you tosser.
Like a heavyweight boxer training for a title fight, I’d trained for these media sharks. Trained hard. I’d had mock interviews running into double figures to get me ready for people like Ken Coughlan.
Years ago, when Dan and I decided that I’d run for Mayor of Meadowview, we’d had a conversation I’d never forgotten. It had taken place in his penthouse when I was a lot more naïve than I am now.
‘The press is gonna come at you like an express train,’ Dan told me. ‘They’ll use and abuse you as clickbait and to sell advertising. As the media won’t think twice about exploiting you, you need to return the favour.’
‘How d’you mean?’
‘If the press lies about you, shout it out long and loud. Let everyone know they’re lying. If they tell the truth and it’s negative, shout out longer and louder that they’re lying. Whatever they say, they’re lying. Shout false information. That’s how to win the mayoral election.’
At my puzzled look, Dan gave a long-suffering sigh, like he was talking to an idiot. I admit, it pissed me off.
‘You want to get not just your supporters but everyone not believing a word the press says about you. That way, when the press realizes you can’t be bought, taught or manipulated and they come at you with the truth, no one will believe them.’
‘And you reckon that will work?’ I asked, unconvinced.
‘It has in the past,’ said Dan. ‘Most of the media in Albion stopped reporting the news years ago. Now it’s opinion and soundbites taken from social media. That’s going to be their downfall. Too many modern reporters think that presenting the news is all about giving opposing views equal airtime. I say the sky is red with green stripes; you say it’s purple with pink and orange spots. Lazy journalists will present both our views as the story of the sky. Smart journalists stick their heads out of the window and check the facts for themselves before reporting back on what’s accurate and what’s not. Luckily, there aren’t too many smart journalists around these days.’
‘Jesus, that’s cold, Dan.’
‘No, that’s accurate,’ he shot back. ‘If reporters are too lazy to do their jobs properly, we’re going to exploit that. If the view of Joe Nobody from across the road is given the same weight as an expert with a PhD in their field, we can use that to our advantage.’
‘What makes you so smart about this all of a sudden?’ I asked.
‘It’s not all of a sudden,’ said Dan. ‘It’s thanks to Eva. She got me educated and encouraged me to think, to find out facts and figures and the truth for myself.’
His eyes took on a soft, kindly light that had me blinking in stunned amazement. I’d never seen that kind of light in Dan’s eyes when he was talking about anyone else. This woman – whoever she was – seemed to be his one and only weakness.
‘When will I get to meet this paragon?’ I said.
‘We’ll see,’ he dismissed.
Why was he so keen to keep me away from her?
‘Now I reckon the media will build you up and indulge you while they think you don’t stand a chance, but the moment it looks like you might actually win? That’s when the knives, bullets and poison will come out,’ Dan continued. ‘They’ll ridicule you, they’ll drag up your past, they’ll make up stuff about you or slant the truth. You’ve got to be ready for all that and you’ve got to grow a hide thicker than a rhino’s. If you don’t think you can do that, say so now. Don’t waste everyone’s time, especially mine. I don’t back losers.’
‘I’m not a loser. And I’m not a quitter. I can do this,’ I insisted.
And here I was, just scant weeks away from fulfilling my ultimate dream, but I had this interview to get through first.
‘Tobey, isn’t it true that Dan Jeavons, the notorious underworld figure, bankrolled your campaign when you ran for Mayor of Meadowview?’ asked Ken.
‘May I remind you that Dan Jeavons is a legitimate businessman. Yes, he has served time in prison, but he’s put his past behind him. Or rather he would, if the press stopped throwing his past actions in his face. He and I were at school together. We’re friends. I don’t turn my back on my friends. This attempt by the opposition to paint me guilty by association is beneath contempt. Now perhaps you’d like to ask me some questions regarding my politics and policies rather than my friends and associates?’
Ken nodded, satisfied that by mentioning Dan he’d done enough to sow a few seeds of doubt in people’s minds about the type of person I called friend.
‘OK, Tobey, let’s talk about your political failings to date,’ said Ken, bringing me back to the present. ‘You were Mayor of Meadowview for almost five years before you became a Member of Parliament for the opposition. During that time, Nought-on-Nought crime in Meadowview increased from ten deaths a year at the start of your tenure to five times that by the time you left office. The number of pupils excluded from Meadowview schools more than doubled each year you were Mayor. The number of homeless in Meadowview quadrupled. Based on that track record, why on earth should anyone vote for you to become this country’s next Prime Minister? So that you can do to the entire country what you did to Meadowview?’
There was a silky smile on his lips as he let that land.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
This was live TV. No re-dos. No second chances.
‘How interesting that you refer to crime in Meadowview as Nought-on-Nought crime,’ I began. ‘Statistically, crimes tend to happen within the same communities, whether it’s within a family unit or any narrower section of the community. For example, crimes perpetrated by Crosses against other Crosses are just referred to as crimes, never Cross-on-Cross crimes. It’s interesting that crimes are never colour-coded in this country unless they’re committed by Noughts. But, to answer your question, during my tenure as Mayor, the government saw fit to cut all fundi
ng to Meadowview by over forty per cent. Forty-three per cent to be exact—’
‘That’s as may be but—’
‘You asked me a question, please allow me to answer it.’ I interrupted Ken’s interruption, adding just enough steel to my voice to make him shut up. ‘No other region in the country had to suffer the swingeing cuts that Meadowview was forced to endure. Youth centres and libraries had to close. Social care for the elderly, the very young and the vulnerable also had to be severely cut back. We had to shut our parks at six in the evening and close them completely on Sundays. Home-building schemes had to be abandoned. Now some people have speculated that Meadowview had to endure such draconian funding cuts as the price for electing their first Nought Mayor to office.’
‘You can’t be suggesting—’
‘I didn’t say me, Ken, I said “some people”. It’s interesting that when I became an MP and the next Mayor of Meadowview took over – who happened to be a Cross, affiliated with the current government – all Meadowview’s funding was not only reinstated but increased on top of that by twelve per cent. Don’t you find that interesting?’
Ken’s smile had fallen off his face and found its way onto mine.
Suck on that, you bastard.
‘I can honestly say that, if I am elected Prime Minister, I’ll ensure that regional funding is allocated based on need and nothing else.’ I mentally sat forward, though I remained upright and relaxed in my chair, as had been drilled into me by my media trainers.
It was on.
Isabella Monroe, my full-time executive assistant and part-time lover, had insisted that I couldn’t duck out of doing Guest of the Week any longer. Kennedy Coughlan had even started making snide comments on social media about me constantly turning him down. I wasn’t. I just couldn’t stand the man. Ken was a Cross presenter of unshakeable reputation. He wore his famous black suit and gold tie like a suit of armour and, along with his manicured moustache and trim beard, he was instantly recognizable and revered. He was below average height, a number of centimetres shorter than me, and had a deep, melodious voice. A voice that whispered subliminally in a dulcet tone – trust me. And most people in the country did. Very few knew what a womanizing, dodgy scumbag Ken Coughlan truly was. The Guest of the Week programme was his personal weekly platform to annihilate his enemies. And, lucky me, it was my turn.
I addressed the rest of his points, taking each in turn and making sure not to appear flustered or peeved. That wouldn’t do at all. Ken allowed me to make my points, but stated when I’d finished, ‘Aren’t these just excuses to try to cover up your incompetence?’
‘Kennedy, you don’t need to be a genius or even particularly good at maths to appreciate that, with forty per cent less money between one year and the next, services are inevitably going to suffer. If I’m making a coat and you take away almost half my material, you can’t expect me to make a coat of the same length and quality.’
‘Well, I’ll leave it for our viewers to decide whether or not your excuses are even remotely valid,’ said Ken directly to the camera.
‘Way to be impartial, Ken.’
‘I’m totally impartial,’ he bristled indignantly.
Damn! This man wasn’t even trying to hide his antagonism towards me. Good! What I needed to do now was make him even angrier.
‘I understand your need to defend the current government.’ I shrugged. ‘After all, your sister was Secretary of State for Education, your brother-in-law is a top civil servant and your daughter Yasmin did a year-long unpaid internship with the Minister of Justice. How lovely that Yasmin can afford to work for an entire year with no pay. I can’t think of many twenty-two-year-olds in Meadowview who could afford to work so long for so little.’
‘We’re not here to talk about my daughter,’ said Ken furiously.
‘True, but, Ken, you did just say you were impartial, which is a blatant lie.’
‘I beg your pardon—’
‘Well, you’re best friends with Felu Farjeon, the Chancellor. Felu has one of the top three jobs in government. How can you be impartial?’
‘Felu and I may be friends, but that has no impact on how I do my job,’ Ken argued.
‘None?’
‘Absolutely none.’
‘So he never tells you how or who to interview?’
‘Of course not,’ Ken dismissed. ‘And, if you don’t mind, this is my show. I ask the questions here.’
I studied Ken, feigning puzzlement. ‘You had lunch with Felu on Wednesday. Are you saying my name wasn’t mentioned throughout your entire meal?’
‘We had better things to talk about than you,’ Ken said, not even attempting to hide his abject contempt.
That was what I was waiting to hear. I pulled my phone out of my jacket pocket and pressed an icon on the screen before laying it down on the table between us. A conversation recorded two days ago immediately began to play.
‘I’m interviewing that jumped-up blanker bastard on Friday. The ex-Mayor of Blanker Town.’
Ken’s voice played out loud and clear. He prided himself on his distinctive tones. Let him try to deny that was him.
‘Tobias Durbridge?’ said a male voice in answer to Ken’s statement.
I turned to the TV camera, addressing the viewers directly. ‘This was recorded two days ago, on Wednesday at lunchtime. The voices you can hear are Ken having lunch with the Chancellor, Felu Farjeon, in case any of you are wondering about the second male voice.’
I turned back to Ken, faux relaxing in my chair. Ken leaned forward to snatch up my phone. I got in first. I held it in my hand, swiping to turn the volume up to its maximum setting.
‘Where did you get that? That’s an illegal recording,’ Ken said furiously.
‘Don’t worry about Durbridge,’ said Felu, his tone overflowing with disdain. ‘By this time next week, his own kind will have voted him out of office. Blankers don’t know a damned thing about loyalty.’
‘Don’t underestimate the stupidity of the public – or Durbridge,’ said Ken. ‘He’s tenacious. The little weasel has had a taste of power now. He won’t give it up easily.’
‘He won’t have any choice. All you need do is hit him with the decline in Meadowview services under his reign. Five years of minimum funding took their toll. Make sure the blame is laid at that blanker’s door and don’t let him try to place it elsewhere.’
‘Well, the blanker has finally agreed to appear on my programme.’ Ken’s laugh was distinctive. ‘Crucifying him is going to be the highlight of my month. Hell, my year! And, when he’s down and can’t get up again, I will shake his hand. I wouldn’t want it to appear that my attack on him is personal.’
As the two of them laughed heartily, I stopped the audio broadcast. That was enough. Ken and I sat in silence, watching each other. He stared at me, his brown eyes sparking with fury. The clapback from this would mean both he and Felu Farjeon would lose their jobs – and we both knew it.
Did I feel sorry for him?
Did I bollocks! I was a master of the deeply satisfying art of not giving a damn.
‘How did you get that recording?’ asked Ken at last.
‘It was emailed to me,’ I replied. ‘The person who sent it signed their email: “a concerned Meadowview citizen”. Maybe it was someone at an adjacent table? Or perhaps a disgruntled waiter or waitress you neglected to tip? But like I said – and as you and your friend the Chancellor of the Exchequer have just confirmed – my budgets were deliberately slashed in an effort to drive me from the political arena. The government might hate my guts, but they had no right to make the people of Meadowview suffer because of it. All I can say is, roll on the general election so that the people of this great country can let the current government know exactly what they think of such tactics.’
Waves of animosity washed over me as Ken stared a hole right through me. I met his animosity with a slight beatific smile. Let the TV viewers see me in all my unthreatening glory. The contrast between Ken an
d me would be even starker.
The rest of the interview was anticlimactic. Ken continued to ask me questions, which I answered fully and evenly. Once the interview was over, he leaned forward, his hand held out. I looked at it, then at him and shook the proffered sweaty object.
The moment the producer announced we were no longer on the air, I snatched back my hand, making a show of wiping my palm on my trouser leg.
‘You son of a bitch!’ Ken announced.
I leaned forward, one hand over the radio mic on my jacket lapel, and said for his ears only, ‘Do unto others as they would do unto you, only do it first.’
‘You’ll pay for this.’ Ken’s dark brown eyes were almost black with rage, his face set in an ugly snarl.
‘Now, Ken, should I turn on my camera phone and record this too? I’d be more than happy to put it on my website.’
‘Fuck you, Durbridge.’
I took out my phone and held it up between Ken and me. ‘Could you repeat that, please?’
‘Fuck. You. Durbridge,’ Ken obliged.
What an arse!
One of the many satisfying things about power was seeing the bodies of your enemies float by on the river of life while you watched from the bank, eating popcorn.
‘And a merry Crossmas to you too,’ I replied, even though we were only a few months into the new year.
Switching off my phone, I removed my radio mic and headed off the set. There, waiting for me, was Dan Jeavons – my campaign manager, chief backer and friend of old. Next to him was his second in command, Jarvis Burton. Jarvis, a particularly nasty piece of work, wore his wavy brown hair styled in a top plait with buzz-cut sides, military style. He looked every centimetre the hard man he was. Dan took particular delight in telling me some of the things Jarvis had done on his behalf. Tales to frighten children and adults alike. Dan had chosen his lieutenant well. Jarvis didn’t say much, but he didn’t miss a thing, and I had it on good authority that he was not just vicious but ruthless when crossed.
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