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  ‘Come on pal, you know no self respecting journalist ever reveals their sources.’

  ‘Fair point, but you surprise me. The charismatic Jack Roberts will get that duty, no doubt, nothing more certain, he’s always brown nosing the bosses at every opportunity. I can see and hear it now, him dancing around the great one; it will be sickening to see.’ Colin rammed a finger in his throat and made a vomiting noise, and Martin forced a laugh.

  ‘You are probably right, but a great coup for The Messenger nonetheless. Anything more on this Tinbergen thing?’ asked Martin.

  ‘Nah. I’m digging like hell, I know it is there somewhere, but I’ve not struck anything yet.’

  ‘Well, to make up for it, I have more.’

  ‘Really? You’re a star. I’m still listening.’

  ‘You know I told you about this lad, Adam.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Well, Liz was hauled in by the SPATs for assisting him. Got off with a warning and a fine.’

  ‘Oh Christ!’

  ‘That’s what I said, a bit too close to home for comfort. And one last piece of hearsay.’

  ‘Go on, you seem to be holding all the aces.’

  ‘The EW programme is getting a hurry up. Joss will be going away sooner than you think.’

  ‘Oh jeez, that won’t go down well.’

  ‘I see they are opening up the coal mines again,’ said Martin. ‘These new power stations have to be fuelled somehow.’

  ‘Suppose that makes some kind of sense. We are sitting on an island standing on coal. Now they reckon they have cracked the pollution issue, it’s full steam ahead, so to speak.’

  ‘You think?’

  ‘So they say,’ said Colin.

  ‘I don’t believe a word of it. The ones I feel sorry for are the people who end up working below the bloody ground.’

  ‘It will be interesting to see if they can recruit sufficient staff,’ said Colin.

  ‘Exactly. Why do I have a feeling they will end up being recruited?’

  ‘Aye, and you know where they will be coming from.’

  ‘The EWP of course,’ said Martin.

  ‘Got it in one, and Joss won’t like that, and I don’t either.’

  They went over everything again, discussing all they knew about the EWP, information that was mostly in the public domain, but came to no fresh conclusions.

  ‘I’ll have to go,’ said Martin. ‘Same time next week?’

  ‘Sure, and next time I’ll try and pull my weight.’

  ‘You do that, mate, and maybe I’ll see you at the conference?’

  ‘I’ll be there, hanging around the fringes, in search of human stories reflected in the state of the nation’s business people, you know me.’

  Colin watched Martin’s shadow slip from the hut. He sat alone for a good ten minutes wondering as to whether he should tell Joss she could be leaving earlier than anticipated, and that she might be going down the bloody mines, a modern day Bevin Boy, girl, though there didn’t seem much point in frightening her. Suddenly the flood defence work in East Anglia looked vaguely attractive.

  AT HALF PAST TEN ON Monday morning the office trainee came running to Colin’s desk.

  ‘You are wanted in the boardroom, Col,’ the sparky-eyed kid said. ‘Straight away, they said. Been up to no good, have you?’

  ‘Don’t be so cheeky, and finish checking those share prices before the controller calls for them.’

  The kid grinned and practically ran away, as young people do. Colin straightened his tie and slipped on his jacket and headed for the boardroom door. His armpits were already sweating, and that was a bad sign. He was aware that a round of budgetary spending cuts had already begun, and that might mean redundancies. Could it have something to do with the forthcoming rival, National Today? Neither of his last two staff assessment reports had been particularly brilliant. The thought that he might be in for the quick chop gathered credence in his head, and all he could think of was, what would Jemmie say? He tapped on the solid door and waited to be called.

  ‘Come in, Colin Cornelius!’ a man’s voice boomed from within.

  Inside, sitting before a large polished table was a solitary guy. It was Richie Foulsham, an Australian, about the same age as Colin, but a man with a greater sense of ambition. He would clamber over his mother’s shoulders if it meant one more promotion, one more pay increase, everyone in The Messenger knew that, and it was widely rumoured that Richie was heading for super stardom. He had made no secret of the fact that his ultimate goal, within Crifuel Holdings, was the editorship of The Messenger itself, and nothing less, but as with all super-ambitious people, he never set his limits there. Once achieved, he would move on to a whole new range of targets, presumably outside and above anything The Messenger could offer.

  ‘Sit down, Col,’ he said cheerfully enough, pointing to the chair opposite. ‘Want coffee?’

  ‘Oh yeah, thanks.’

  No one ever refused coffee in the boardroom because of the quality of the beans.

  ‘I’ll come straight to the point, Col,’ he said, ‘I have a bit of news for you.’

  Oh dear, thought Colin, that didn’t sound promising, and all he could think of was, if he were to be made redundant, at least it would give him time to fix up the house, while he cast around for another position.

  ‘Good I hope?’ he said, striving to remain optimistic.

  Richie looked up and grunted, ‘Maybe. We’ll see. The party conference shindig takes place at the end of this week down in your neck of the woods, Bournemouth.’

  ‘I should think everyone in the country knows that by now, seeing as it has been trailed on the telly every five minutes for the last four weeks.’

  ‘Quite, well the good news, as far as this house is concerned, is that The Messenger has landed an interview with the great one. Live TV, the works.’

  ‘Yeah?’ said Colin, staring down at his ragged fingernails. ‘So I believe.’

  ‘You knew?’ said Richie, total surprise in his voice.

  ‘Not knew, Rich. Just heard a rumour or two I picked up in the boozer.’

  ‘Christ, I’d like to drink in the boozers you frequent, if you pick up intelligence like that. It’s supposed to be top secret, for Chrissake. Anyway, the board, in their wisdom, have decided they want you to carry out the interview.’

  Colin thought he was hearing things and switched up his listening devices. Richie was still in full flow, talking from the side of his mouth, as antipodeans sometimes do.

  ‘I’ll brief you in more detail on Wednesday morning. There will be a list of pre-arranged questions, of course, though that doesn’t rule out an off the cuff effort or two, from your goodself. You’ll travel down to the coast that afternoon. You can stay at home, handy that, saves us expenses, and you can watch the Leader arrive on Thursday morning, it’s bound to receive blanket coverage, and the interview itself is scheduled for the Carlton Hotel in Bournemouth on Friday night at 7.30 sharp. Got all that?’

  Colin swallowed. ‘Yeah sure, Rich, but I thought Jack Roberts would be getting the job. I think everyone did. Took it for granted.’

  ‘You mean everyone knew?’ said Richie, incredulously.

  ‘Well, not everyone, but some of them must have.’

  Richie looked to one side and then the other, as if to check they really were alone. ‘Jack’s off covering the United Nations conference in Geneva, and between you and I and the gatepost, his position here is not as watertight as you might think, and keep that nugget to yourself.’

  ‘Really? I’m sorry to hear it,’ said Colin, though of course he wasn’t; having never got on well with the red-faced and boring Jack Roberts. ‘Why me, Rich?’

  ‘Dunno the answer to that. If I may speak bluntly, it puzzles me too. Frankly, I thought there were more suitable people to do the job, more deserving cases, come to that, but you must have some good friends somewhere in high places, Colin Cornelius, for they insisted that you do the job.’

&n
bsp; ‘I’m flattered.’

  ‘You bloody well should be! Just make sure you are sober and turn up on time, and get your mother to check your fingernails are trimmed and clean before you leave the house.’

  Colin grinned and rammed his hands in his pockets.

  ‘Thanks Rich; thanks a lot.’

  ‘Don’t thank me, mate. You would never have been my choice.’

  Seventeen

  Thursday morning dawned bright and clear all along the south coast, and the city of Bournemouth was buzzing. Never before had the bustling seaside town known anything quite like it. The great Leader was coming to town and a public walkabout was promised. The general public descended on the city as if it were Las Vegas with a faulty payout fruit machine.

  There wasn’t a spare bed to be had in an area stretching from Lymington in the east to Swanage in the west, and the hoteliers, many of whom were long-time supporters of the National Party’s policies, were overjoyed at that.

  In the Cornelius household over a hurried breakfast, Colin noticed that Joss was packing her haversack.

  ‘Where the hell are you off to?’

  ‘Rock concert. I told you. Three days. I’m going with Frank.’

  Colin glanced at Jemima. She grinned and nodded.

  ‘What about school? What about the curfew?’

  ‘Special dispensation,’ she said. ‘Honestly dad, I told you. You never listen to a thing.’

  ‘You make sure you behave yourself, young lady, and when you come back, I think it is high time we were introduced to this Frank Preston character.’

  ‘He is not a character, dad, he is a friend and a good friend at that.’

  Colin harrumphed. ‘Ring us if you need anything.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I will.’

  Colin bolted his breakfast, and on the way out as he crossed the doorstep, he pecked Jemima on the cheek, a kiss so hurriedly issued, he almost missed altogether.

  ‘No idea what time I’ll be back,’ he muttered.

  ‘Good,’ she said sarcastically, ‘no idea whether I shall cook dinner or not, and anyway I am off out with my rambling pals.’

  Colin gave her a look and a smile and hurried outside and set off in the sunshine on the long walk across the river to Christchurch railway station. When he arrived there he found the platform packed with well-dressed people, most heading westward, as was the train, when it pulled into the station. On board, people were standing everywhere, and Colin could not find a seat.

  As far as he could tell, at least half those travelling were Party members heading for the B.I.C. Phones rang, excited conversation flowed through the carriage, and occasionally everyone seemed to be talking at once in loud estuary English. The Leader was singled out for special and regular praise; Colin couldn’t help but notice that.

  We simply could not have done it without the Leader.

  Everyone agreed. No dissenting voices anywhere.

  In less than twenty minutes the train glided into the new glass domed station at Bournemouth Central. Outside, a fleet of coaches waited to take the delegates and guests to the main hall down on the seafront, close to the pier. Colin, well dressed as he was, flowed along with the excited herd, and surprisingly, he was never once asked to produce a ticket or a pass. Perhaps there was a story there, he mused. Poor Security Blights Conference. Some of the others smiled at him, as if they knew him somewhere, but couldn’t place the face, but no one questioned his right to attend.

  The coach crawled around the busy city, through theatre and cinema-land, past the expensive and glitzy department stores, and the long queues for the new balloon ride in the park, before dropping the passengers near to the B.I.C.

  The Bournemouth International Centre had been the premier location for party political conferences in Britain for more than forty years. The National Party of Great Britain was no different in preferring smart hotels, clean sea air, and the holiday vibe. It would put everyone in a good mood, the Party bigwigs reasoned, and the thinking was clearly working. It was almost as if it were a public holiday, a thought that hadn’t yet occurred to anyone in the government.

  The delegates queued in front of the main entrance where their passes were scrutinised, a quick frisk and baggage search, and then they were inside. Colin left them to it and walked away from the hall, past two policemen who he thought looked about seventeen, and on to join the waiting general public. The crowd outside was building rapidly, and some of them looked as if they had been standing there for hours, yet their enthusiasm remained undimmed.

  Good-natured chanting broke out, as Party stewards in their quasi Boy Scout uniforms, ambled up and down the lines, grinning and chatting with the front ranks beyond the barriers. It was all a front, for they were inspecting the crowd individually, speaking words of welcome to recognised faces, smiling and joking, but all the while keeping an eye on those they did not know, looking for potential troublemakers. Everyone was happy, delirious it seemed, at the thought of seeing and meeting and greeting the Leader.

  Colin edged down the hill, and slipped into the crowd, and wheedled his way down toward the barrier at the front. Two middle-aged women in brown hats sporting their Forward with the National Party badges gave him a reproving look, though he seemed a pleasant enough gentleman, and if they had to be crushed up against anyone, it might as well be him. At least by the look of him, he had had a good wash, and was vaguely handsome. Colin smiled at them, and they smiled back.

  ‘Exciting isn’t it?’ said the fatter of the two.

  Colin nodded as he glanced over the barrier to see if anyone was coming.

  ‘Come far?’ she asked.

  ‘No, not really, only from Christchurch. You?’

  ‘Norfolk,’ she beamed, as if they had travelled from the far reaches of Alaska.

  The crowd thickened further until not one extra person could be squeezed into that confined space. The barriers were now being tested to the limit. A sudden hush fell over the crowd. Everyone strained their necks until it hurt. Further along the row, loud chanting broke out. Then clapping too, quickly followed by excited squealing. The fat woman grinned manically at Colin. He thought she might need the bathroom pretty damn quick.

  ‘The Leader is coming!’ she gushed. ‘The Leader is coming! I can’t believe it! I just can’t believe it!’

  ‘Looks like it,’ he said, peering to the right, just like all the others.

  He was standing on tiptoe, anything for a better view. The crowd was reaching frenzy at the far end, as the Leader of the National Party of Great Britain approached. The Leader was really here, smiling in the bright sunshine, stepping out toward them.

  She looked magnificent.

  Tall and confident and slim, with her high cheekbones and elegant deportment. Her biography said she was thirty-nine; Colin had recently dug out a copy of that huge tome, during his research for the upcoming interview. The book had remained atop the bestseller lists since its release eighteen months before. It was true, Colin thought, she did seem much younger than thirty-nine, youthful and vigorous. She stepped out boldly, her knees knocking forward against her long black skirt, as she moved.

  She smiled to either side, as the crowd pressed forward again, and reached out in their attempt to touch the beloved Mrs Bletchington. Some threw bouquets of flowers, one bold man wolf-whistled, and everyone giggled at that, including the Leader herself. It was clear she enjoyed being desired by the men, and adored being the centre of attention. Who wouldn’t? Cameras snapped furiously, every phone pointing her way, as she approached the spot where Colin stood.

  To either side of her, a flunkey in a suit attended to her every need, almost running to keep up. They were taking turns to whisper in her ear, presumably telling her whom she would meet, how her schedule was running, and where she absolutely must smile for the television cameras. Beyond the flunkeys, at either side, were two crew cut chunky gents, breathing noisily through their noses like wild animals, constantly inspecting the crowd through their twent
y-twenty vision. They wore lounge suits, but could never quite shake off the stink of SPATs security.

  To Colin’s right, four or five people along, a man aged about sixty, began clambering over the barrier. It took all the strength he possessed to reach the other side. He was a skinny guy with lank and thinning hair, his skin a curious shade of grey, as if he were seriously ill.

  He appeared nervous, glancing this way and that, but once on the inside of the barrier, he pulled something from his jacket, and made a sharp lunge toward her. In the sunshine there was flash of steel. The crowd swayed and oohed. In a blur of movement and violence the security men were between the Leader and the desperado. His arm was forced high into the sky. The knife went spinning to the ground, glistening as it fell, seemingly in slow motion. It clattered to the tarmac and was instantly booted under the barrier by one of the hired thugs.

  Thug number two forced the man’s arm backward in one swift movement, and snapped it like kindling. Those close by heard the bones crack. The man screamed. No one cared. He was down. Boots went to work, thudding repeatedly into head and body. The Leader witnessed everything. She barely broke her stride. Only for the briefest moment did her practiced smile leave her tanned face.

  ‘Everything all right, sergeant?’ she called, still looking about her and smiling, as if this was a daily event.

  ‘Everything is fine, ma’am. Everything under control!’

  ‘Well done, man. Well done.’

  Colin watched the broader of the thugs bring his foot down on to the man’s head as if he were stamping on a spider. As he lifted and crashed the boot down again, Colin glimpsed the steel studs affixed to the sole. Someone close by actually applauded the act, and to top it all, someone else shouted: ‘Bravo! Bravo!’

  The boot was black and shiny and new, especially made for the purpose, so it seemed, a crusher, and it had done its devilish work.

  The unfortunate one lay crumpled and motionless on his back like a dead dog in the gutter. Blood dribbled from his mouth and meandered toward Colin’s loafers. A young woman leant over and took the opportunity to spit on the felled figure, and several others followed suit, including the fat turkeys from Norfolk.