State Sponsored Terror Page 13

  ‘I can see the improvement in public order and discipline,’ said Colin, searching for the correct words, ‘but it does nothing to put me at ease about what is going to happen to my own daughter, and I imagine many other parents are thinking precisely the same thing.’

  ‘I don’t think either you or they should worry about that. All the students partaking in the EWP will be well looked after, and when the time comes, they will return to their homes and families far better people, more rounded citizens, more experienced, independent, with a sense of purpose and duty toward the country and their communities, something they clearly do not possess now. Don’t forget, Colin, the previous policy of charging the parents through the courts for their children’s misdemeanours proved to be a hopeless failure, because it did nothing to rid us of the actual problem, while at the same time managing to alienate those very parents, once they had received hefty fines. That was clearly not the answer; not the way forward. The EWP is the way forward, because it goes straight to the root of the problem, because it is working, it has worked, and it will continue to work. Judge it when your daughter returns to you, and not before. Keep an open mind, man.’

  AT FRANK PRESTON’S house Joss sat on the settee holding his hand, feeling the need to shout something at the screen along the lines of: Go on Dad, you tell her! but as everyone in the Preston household were formidable supporters of the Leader and all her policies, Joss bit her tongue and remained silent.

  In the Cornelius home Jemima sat with Donald and Eve.

  ‘God, this is so boring,’ moaned Donald. ‘Can’t we turn over; there are dinosaurs on channel 30.’

  ‘No!’ said Eve. ‘Dad’s brilliant. Let’s watch!’

  After a slow start, and that ludicrous obsequious kissing of the hand, Jemima too was beginning to think how well her husband was doing. Tomorrow it would be the talk of the town; he would be the talk of all Dorset, indeed it would be the talk of the nation. They all looked on spellbound at Colin, swaying across their plasma screens, and somehow he looked younger; better looking, handsome even, the make-up staff had certainly done their work well, even if he did look a trifle orange, and sitting next to one extraordinary woman, the pair of them provided riveting entertainment. Colin was smirking for England, and was about to issue another question.

  ‘Can I turn to VCS?’ he said.

  ‘Voluntary Clean Streets,’ she clarified, ‘let’s call it by its proper name, is another policy that helps deal with crime, indiscipline and terrorism. 99.9% of all citizens support the plan, by adhering to the recommended times.’

  ‘So there is no possibility of the curfew being lifted?’

  ‘None whatsoever!’ she snapped, ever so slightly miffed at his use of the “C” word. ‘And it is not a curfew either!’

  Was he beginning to get to her, he wondered? Was she becoming rattled? If she was, few people would have seen it, for she continued apace, spouting the Party line, the government mantra at every opportunity. ‘Not in the short term,’ she snapped, ‘because the vast majority of the populace support the programme, and want it retained. Night-time burglary rates have totally collapsed, night-time assaults are down by 88%, night-time drink driving figures are down by 93%, night-time speeding tickets issued are down by 91%, night-time rapes and sexual violence crimes are down by 77%! I could go on. There are many more statistics to support our actions, if you need them, if you care to look. The policy is clearly working, the public support it, and make no mistake about it, it will continue.’

  ‘But isn’t that only because it is now illegal to go out after 10pm?’

  ‘It is not illegal to go out after 10pm, as you well know, Colin. Those people who have essential legal business, those people that are travelling to and from work, those people who have special exemption, and those people upholding the law, are all legally entitled to be out on the streets after 10pm.’

  ‘Yesterday....’ said Colin.

  ‘All my troubles seemed so far away....’ sang Mrs Bletchington.

  Tight smiles were exchanged, and she nodded for him to continue.

  ‘Yesterday, I saw something truly disturbing.’

  ‘I think I know to what you refer, but pray continue.’

  ‘I saw a relatively elderly man climb over the barriers and attempt to attack you. Subsequently, for his stupidity, your security people gave him such a beating he died from his wounds.’

  She pounced on that. ‘He did not die!’

  ‘He looked dead to me!’

  ‘He did not die!’ she repeated.

  ‘He was motionless,’ insisted Colin, ‘and his body was flung onto the back of a truck like a bag of stinking trash.’

  ‘As I said, he did not die! He is in hospital being cared for, and when he is well enough, he will be brought before the courts to stand trial. If found guilty, he could go to the gallows.’

  ‘You approve of that?’

  ‘I don’t approve of anyone being killed, Colin no, but we simply cannot have terrorists going around the country armed to the teeth, attempting to murder public servants in broad daylight. Would you have preferred it, if he had succeeded?’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘I am glad to hear it,’ she said, and she smiled at him again, knowing full well that her face would be filling the nation’s screens in close-up at that precise moment.

  ‘The law will decide this matter through the courts. The man will be brought to book. That is the way we do things here in Britain. It is the right way, the way we must protect and cherish, and persist with.’

  ‘And juries. When will they return?’

  ‘Juries will return when we deem it an acceptable way to administer justice. I am sure you know well enough, Colin, that jury trial procedures broke down completely because so many juries were being nobbled and threatened and fixed, just as they were during the troubles in our beloved Northern Ireland. In the end, almost no one was being brought to book because the jurors were terrified and too frightened to act impartially, and that contributed to a wholesale breakdown in law and order. That is undeniable, and a situation we have dealt with temporarily, by entrusting three qualified magistrates to weigh up the evidence, and decide the outcome of each case. The courts are working well again, the backlog of cases has halved, justice is being done, and just as importantly, being seen to be done. I hate to repeat myself, but the country supports this policy, of that I am certain. We all want a law abiding and safe country in which to live, and that is what we intend to provide. That is what we are providing.’

  ‘Can I turn to your speech?’

  She smiled again, this time eyes and teeth, flashing in unison.

  ‘Please do. I wondered if you would ever get round to that. I was beginning to think you had forgotten all about it. Were you there, by the way?’

  Colin returned the smile. ‘I watched it on television, Prime Minister.’

  ‘Shame you weren’t there. Did you enjoy it?’

  ‘It was very powerful, as your speeches always are, Prime Minister. You are an excellent speaker, though I am sure you know that already. You are particularly skilled at holding an audience.’

  ‘Careful, Colin,’ and she did that reach across thing again and tapped his pants, ‘people will start thinking I have written your little speech for you.’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Colin, struggling to hold everything together, ‘but can we examine the substance a little more closely.’

  ‘Of course, I’d be delighted to. It is only the substance that matters.’

  ‘You said, and I quote,’ stuttered Colin, squinting down at his papers.

  ‘Don’t squint man, you will damage your eyes!’

  Colin grinned and tried hard not to squint. ‘You said, that the standard of living for the average citizen would begin rising again by the end of next year.’

  ‘I did, and I meant it. It will.’

  ‘What do you base that on?’

  ‘I base it on the figures I see, and the projecti
ons my ministers show me.’

  ‘We are not allowed to see the trade figures any longer.’

  ‘Who said anything about trade figures?’

  ‘So what figures are you referring to?’

  ‘I am referring to the projections that the Bank of England carry out. Don’t forget, families are paying off their debts, at long last. The Bank tell me that the surplus financial figure for each family in Great Britain will start rising again, from late next year.’

  ‘What do they base that on?’

  ‘Lots of things. The unemployment figures for one, which as you well know, are rapidly declining, the low interest rates we have managed to hold, despite the turbulence in worldwide financial markets, the increase in new start-up businesses, and the steady improvement most of the bigger corporations are now reporting. Surely even you must agree there is good progress being made in the economic field.’

  ‘Why can’t we see the trade figures, then?’

  Thelma Bletchington smiled, icily this time.

  ‘Those figures gave succour to our enemies, to our competitors, and to our detractors. It was obvious to everyone that we could not go on importing huge quantities of tarted up electronics from Japan and Taiwan, and even greater quantities of tat and trash from Mainland China and India, while their markets remained almost closed to our exporters. We took the bold step of stopping those imports overnight, and decided in the short term to keep our figures secret, much as a private company might, from our competitors. Yes, there was a temporary shortage of some of those flash harry products in the shops for a short while, products we do not really need, mark you, and it gave our home-based industries real opportunities to fill those gaps, which in turn, protected existing jobs, and created new positions for our homeland workforce. I could name you any number of successes in these fields, but I would not wish to bore you, or your viewers. Ministers and civil servants who need to work with those figures do so every day, and there are lots of them, hard at it, believe you me, but we took the view that the harm done, by making such sensitive information available to all and sundry, was not in the national interest. So we changed things, I believe for the better, and if it is better for Britain, which it clearly is, then I am certain the vast majority of citizens would support our action. Better for Britain, means it is better for all of us. Indeed, did not a Messenger poll just recently say that 69% of your readership confirmed that they were in total agreement with this policy?’

  ‘I am not sure about that one, Prime Minister.’

  ‘Oh come on, Colin, don’t play ducks and drakes with me, you know as well as I do that was exactly the case. 69% supported me on this point alone, and that surely proves the argument. We can all live quite contentedly without the latest expensive useless gadget from the Far East, not to mention the harm to the environment some of them do, and the health hazards, and that is what we shall continue to do, thank you very much. Those damned contraptions were bleeding the country dry. What is more important? British jobs, or the availability of public statistics, I ask you?’

  ‘If you put it like that...’

  ‘I do put it like that! I jolly well do!’

  SO IT WENT ON. MRS Bletchington quoting hugely favouring polls from The Messenger and the BBC at every opportunity, and by the end of the interview Colin felt as if he were arguing against the entire country. She was not only a skilled speaker; she was a brilliant debater, and a superb interviewee. Fact was, she was far too intelligent for Colin, and though she never once made to wipe the floor with him, to rub his nose in his own inabilities, she was clever enough to realise how dreadful that would have appeared, but by the end, he was glad it was all over, for he felt as if he had been on the wrong end of whipping, while there she was, still smiling across at him, smiling for the nation, just as she was at the very beginning, just as any woman might at a man they were attracted to.

  Mrs Bletchington was not attracted to Colin Cornelius in any way; for she had far bigger fish to fry than a mere middle-aged television interviewer, but he had succumbed to her charm offensive, and she knew that well enough, and all that had been screened live on national television, and BBC Worldwide via cable and the Internet. It was the beginning of a charm offensive that would continue long after the cameras had ceased recording, or so he believed they had.

  Afterwards, they stood together before the cheery fire, this time shaking hands, as the cameras clicked away. She brushed some dandruff from his shoulders as if they had been married for twenty years, she would straighten his tie next, he thought, and when she let him hold her hand longer than was necessary, he began to think unthinkable things. She asked him if he had enjoyed it, the interview, she asked him about his wife and family, as she constantly smiled at him through her jade-like sparkling eyes, until he began wondering how much of it was solely for the cameras, and how much was genuine warmth. The cameras were finally off, as the photographers began making their way home. She didn’t change.

  ‘Don’t worry about Joss,’ she said, revealing that she even knew his daughter’s name. Mrs B or Thelma, seemed genuinely interested, and in that lay her true talent. Everyone who met her felt that way about her. ‘I am sure she will be fine. She will do well, and you will be very proud of her.’

  ‘Thank you, Prime Minister. I do hope you are right.’

  ‘Will you join us, Colin, the Party? We really do need men like you.’

  ‘I shall certainly give it a great deal of thought.’

  ‘You do that, man, you shouldn’t waste the opportunity.’

  ‘Can I ask you something else, off the record?’

  ‘Of course, that is how an interview works,’ and she grinned at him, at his slight discomfort.

  ‘Why was I chosen to host the interview?’

  ‘I have no idea. It had nothing to do with me.’

  Was she telling the truth? He had no reason to doubt her, yet he did. There were so many things he doubted, but how and where was the correct forum to air those doubts? He had little idea.

  ‘I must go now,’ she said, ‘busy busy bee, you know me. Lots to do, people to see, hands to shake, plans to make.’

  ‘Yes, Prime Minister, I am sure you have. Thank you again.’

  ‘No Colin, the thanks are all mine, and I hope you weren’t offended by my earlier remarks.’

  ‘Earlier remarks?’

  ‘The ones I made about you having an unsettling look about you. I was too hasty in my judgement there. I can see now that you have a real feel for the ladies.’

  She smiled at him one last time, killingly, charmingly, a smile that if he didn’t know better, might be designed to turn him on. She could do that to a man, to him, to any man, he knew that now, and she clearly knew it too, and he guessed she would never hesitate to use that skill. He found himself wondering on whom she worked that magic in her quiet times. Mr Bletchington was a very lucky man, if indeed it was he and he alone. Colin found himself envying that person, or persons, whoever they were.

  The blond bloke, who had never once taken his eyes from Colin, was now staring down his nose at him. At her nodded signal, he turned and opened the double doors for his Leader, and Thelma Bletchington swept out through them without looking back. Colin remained alone beside the shimmering fire, a fire that was just beginning to die. He wasn’t at all sure how his work would be interpreted, neither at The Messenger, or far more importantly, at home. He feared he had been made to look foolish, a toady, a lickspittle, but he wasn’t the first person that Mrs Thelma Bletchington had verbally trampled underfoot, and he certainly wouldn’t be the last.

  He hated the thought of it, for he had entered the arena well prepared, and determined not to be intimidated or over-impressed, and the unsettling thought occurred to him that he may have been chosen because he wasn’t quite up to the job. Perhaps he wasn’t thought capable of successfully verbally jousting with the Leaderene, and they, whoever they were, might have been right. She was truly something else. Good looking, charming, desir
able, clever, quick, and relentless. Nothing seemed to faze her, nothing seemed beyond her, and she knew that, and clearly at the last election the electorate had seen it too.

  He had never met anyone quite like her. She stood apart from mere mortals, from everyone else. She was unique in many respects, and even if an election were called tomorrow, who could possibly oppose such a woman with any realistic hope of winning? There was no doubt she was at the height of her powers.

  For now, the country would remain under a government led by the charismatic Mrs Thelma Bletchington, and with no definite date as to when the next election might be, the country appeared to be more than satisfied with its lot. But was it?

  Colin wasn’t satisfied, he now knew that for certain, and he wasn’t alone.

  Nineteen

  Inspector Smeggan was one of the few people who did not watch the televised interview. He was a vehement supporter of the Leader, the Party and the government in that order, but he did not feel the need to underline that support by watching every damned TV broadcast that came and went.

  Besides, he was consumed in work. Another day over, another day nearer that fat pension, another hard shift put in against the enemy. He stood from his desk and went to the locked medicine cabinet and opened it using his authorised issue key. The cabinet was crammed. He carefully removed three silver foil sheets of flunitrazepam; each housing six green capsules, and signed the book.