“I just…what were they thinking?” Andrew said, yet again.
“I don’t know, and at the risk of sounding callous, our greater concern is how do we react to it?” Nigel said.
“You think I haven’t been worrying about that too?” Andrew replied, accepting his own self-preservation agenda. “This march was roundly condemned by the right-wing press before it started, scroungers unhappy with their handouts, but if these, these thugs are linked to the benefit’s estates…”
“And if they’re not, why riot when they’ve accomplished their agenda, disrupting the rally?” Nigel mused.
“If they are just opportunistic thugs then I don’t suppose they need a reason, just an event to exploit.”
“Yep, but we do need to be sure what their agenda was before we speak in depth to the House,” Nigel said. “But for now, condemn the violence.”
“And the police reaction?” Andrew asked. “How do we justify trampling down disabled people?”
“We don’t, order an enquiry, distance yourself from their actions and apologise, unreservedly,” Nigel stated. “And you need to be doing that now, I suggest we organise a press conference within the next hour, and then hourly bulletins thereafter, keep them informed, show we have nothing to hide.”
“Yes, I agree, get that sorted will you,” Andrew said. “I need to give Mols a ring, I don’t think I’ll be back for dinner tonight.”
It was a mess that expanded and swallowed whole streets, seeped under doorways and through letterboxes, a tide of violence that ebbed and flowed dependent upon the mood of a minority. Streets became territory to be fought over, defended and attacked. Police Officers looked exhausted, like soldiers after a long tour of duty. The toll mounted, day by day, seven civilians hurt, three officers taken to hospital. The night air hummed and crackled with flames and sirens. Because it just kept going, relentlessly onward, day after day, to neighbouring streets, towns and cities, the message unclear but the objective the same, public disorder. Unite distanced itself from the violence, as did homeless charities and welfare groups, the unrest was not in their name. And yet, after the initial horror at the sight of those with physical and mental disabilities caught in the unrest had passed, as far as the populace was concerned, although they may claim otherwise, the blame lay with the ungrateful poor. They bled the state dry through their welfare demands, and then turned around and spat in its face.
Chapter fifty-two
Nigel
Nigel sank grateful into his chair, a drink in his hand, and nothing to disturb his perfect peace. The bland furnishings of his flat soothing his body, he’d seen more than enough images of violence on the streets for one day, if not for a lifetime. It wasn’t that they particularly upset or offended him, it was the unadulterated boredom of it all. The relentless requirement to present one-self in a state of readiness over matters he cared absolutely nothing about. To him the continued unrest was a puzzle piece nothing more, he had long since realised that Andrew’s position as Prime Minister was not the end game, as far as Sir George was concerned, so what was? At the present time Andrew’s position was looking decidedly rocky, yet every time Nigel visited the club Sir George looked indifferent to the circumstances and merely asked for an update. Nigel disliked being left out of the loop and had on numerous occasions been tempted to ask Sir George just what the hell was going on, especially over the social housing bill. When Nigel had relayed Molly’s little plan to him, he’d expected an outburst, even chastisement for not nullifying the little woman’s influence, but there had been none of that, instead he’d merely raised his eyebrows, announced the plan to be interesting, and told him go back to Andrew the following night and agree to come on board. However, once Andrew had gained the Premiership, events seemed to be colluding to make it the shortest time in office ever. So, if having the PM’s ear was not the result of their machinations, what was? It was a question Nigel had pondered over and over, but he always seemed to end up where he started, and none the wiser for it. And that was the thing, for Nigel his role had never been about money, but influence; he barely noted the upward trajectory of his bank balance. But if Andrew was but a bump in the road to, whatever it was, then was Nigel’s power anything more than an illusion? Had he spent half his life grooming a man who was to bring him little in return? Did it matter if it were Andrew or any other number of candidates that had become PM? Nigel had to believe his role was more than that of a mere voyeur to Sir George’s plan, not that it was his to own of course, Sir George was merely a conduit like himself, if a little more influential. And, Sir George couldn’t stay in his position forever, presumably he had to move upward, or sideways out to pasture and then there would be need of a replacement, Nigel intended for that person to be him; he allowed no doubt to seep into his psyche, surely the fact that his guy was the PM had to mean something? He finished his drink and rubbed his eyes, time to get some sleep before he jumped back onto the merry-go-round once more.
*****
The following morning the atmosphere in Andrew’s office had eased slightly, the night had passed reasonably quietly compared to the last seven days. Whether that was because things were more under control or the fact that it had been an unusually cold and wet night, would only remain to be seen.
“Coffee.” Nigel held the cup out to Andrew.
“Thanks, I need something to keep me awake.”
Nigel felt obliged to ask, although he would die a contented man if he didn’t have to hear any more comments about the baby. “Tough night?”
“Yep, everything here was buzzing around, I couldn’t switch off and then Elaine was restless.” Andrew gesticulated his despair.
Nigel saw his get out from any more baby talk. “Things seemed calmer last night, what are the police saying?”
“Oh, they’re claiming a victory for their policing methods. I hope they’re right, but tonight will tell us, whether last night was just a breather or not.”
“Yes, quite. I think you should do another press update this morning, emphasis the fact that there will be no change in our strategy on welfare, the government will not give in to violence, that sort of thing. Sometimes it’s good to report, that there is nothing to report.”
“Yes.” Andrew yawned widely. “Excuse me, Christ, now I could sleep. Anyway, sound out the People’s Party, it might be good to get some cross party condemnation on the violence. Do we link it to welfare, I mean all the official organisations have distanced themselves from the unrest.”
“I think we have to, those arrested by the police have all been traced back to houses on the estates. Look, why don’t you get your head down for half an hour, you face the press like, well...that,” Nigel pointed at Andrew as he spoke, “…and the public will think they have cause for panic no matter what you say.”
“Thanks mate, I didn’t think I looked that bad?” Andrew said.
“Well you do, just awful in fact,” Nigel reiterated.
Andrew went to take a swig of his coffee and instead put it on the desk. “What time is it?”
“A little after seven-thirty.”
“I’m not meeting the Home Secretary till nine, so I suppose I could,” Andrew replied.
“Good,” Nigel stated. “I’ll tell your secretary on the way out.”
Nigel closed the door quietly behind him as he left, Andrew’s fate, whatever it may be, might already be written but unless he was told otherwise he would continue to support, cajole and direct him in his role as PM. Although, Nigel had to admit, Andrew at least looked like leader now, he’d taken on his Party and Opponents and won, and had several decent overseas trips. His face had hardened, or maybe it just reflected his fatigue, but it had a more lived in quality that could, if exploited correctly, invoke trust. He still allowed Molly far too much influence in his thoughts, although he was certain she said the same about him and, he supposed, he’d shown his loyalty to him in facing down the criticism and appointing him as a special adviser. Nigel stopped for a second,
paused in his walk through the outer office, and if anyone frowned and looked at him he didn’t notice, but he wondered if he shouldn’t feel at least a tinge of guilt at his constant betrayal of someone who viewed him with affection; he searched through his emotions, did a quick inventory of his responses and, to his relief, decided no he did not. Andrew was, and always would be, a project and a means to an end, satisfied with his response he resumed his walk. Sir George was expecting him, maybe today would be the great reveal, and maybe he would finally be welcomed inside the loop.
*****
Nigel stood and waited to be acknowledged, it was a routine he was well used to, one of Sir George’s little power trips. Nigel felt oddly gratified in a way, if Sir George felt the need to constantly remind him of his position, then he must feel threatened by his presence.
Finally Sir George folded his newspaper, placed it on the table and then turned to Nigel, as if he’d just arrived at his side.
“Sit down Nigel, would you like a drink?”
“Coffee would be good, thank you.”
Sir George gestured toward a hovering figure, which then walked quietly away.
“I like tea,” Sir George stated. “Coffee’s too American.”
Nigel nodded and waited. Silence, he refused to feel uncomfortable and made a show of stretching out his legs, flicking an imaginary piece of fluff from his trousers.
An outline appeared and placed a tray on the table, a cafeteria, a silver teapot, milk and cream jugs, a sugar bowl, and two cups and saucers; each was placed onto the lace dollies that festooned the mahogany surface.
“Would Sir prefer a …mug?” the shape said, almost spitting out the last word.
“No, a cup and saucer will be fine thank you,” Nigel replied.
The club itself was fairly empty, which was why, Nigel assumed, Sir George had not felt the need to take their affairs into the side room. He chose cream for his coffee and offered to pour the tea.
“No, I prefer it a little more stewed,” Sir George replied. “My father always used to say you could tell a man’s character by the strength of his tea.”
Nigel wondered what that implied for coffee drinkers, but he said nothing, because nothing was really required of him, yet. In fact the silence continued into Sir George’s second cup before he finally deemed the time right to communicate.
“So, how’s our boy holding up?” he asked, a phrase that had been often repeated over the years.
“Fine, well a little fatigued obviously, but okay, “ Nigel replied, he’d decided keeping his answers brief was the best ploy, especially as he was unsure of the motivation behind the question, or indeed what Sir George hoped to hear.
“I see.” Another few minutes of tea drinking, and then, “I want you to make sure he keeps making that link in any statement he gives, between those on welfare and the violence.”
“Of course,” Nigel replied, where was this going?
“And I want you to make sure that is the message Andrew is giving out to his Ministers, should anyone be asked their opinion.”
Nigel nodded, he had nothing to add to his previous response.
“Good,” Sir George said. “You’d best be getting back.”
Nigel placed the cup, that had almost reached his lips, back onto the saucer and took his leave.
He pondered Sir George’s comments, had it really been necessary to summon him to the club, just to reiterate an instruction he’d already been given? He was beginning to wonder if, whenever the ultimate aim of this whole thing was achieved, he’d actually recognise it for the landmark it was. Christ he hoped so, of course he could be part of a plan which spanned decades, and never move beyond the position he was in now, endlessly wondering if the…thing…was just around the corner and he only had to hang in a little longer to be granted a tantalising glimpse of…something. Could he do that, be not even a cog in the machine but one of many teeth worked into its side. It was a pointless question really because, of course he would, had to, there was honour in his servitude, and that he must never forget. It was at such times that he thought a son might have been nice, not because he had any paternal stirrings, nor indeed any interest in the opposite sex, but to allow him to continue the family tradition. If Ruby ever settled down, and had a family, more specifically a son, would they approach that child? Probably not, if his sibling had any brats she’d indoctrinate them with her liberal ideology and find it perfectly acceptable to send them to the local comprehensive. No, he was the last of his line and that was simply the way it was. His phone rang, it was as if he’d summoned her through his thoughts.
“Hello Ruby.”
“Mam said you bailed on her last night.”
Typical of his sister, straight to the point.
“You are aware, are you not, that the streets are full of hooligans, most of whom you’ve probably advised at some point in your career,” he retorted.
“Not since you made changes to legal aid, ensuring welfare was no longer covered,” she replied.
Nigel allowed himself a moment of smugness, that little piece of legislation had been a godsend in so many different ways. “What do you want Ruby, I’m busy.”
“I want you to go and have dinner with mum, it’s only once a month for god’s sake,” she said, anger heating her voice.
It had become yet another source of friction between the two, Ruby felt Nigel did not do enough as far as their mother was concerned, and she was undoubtedly right; but surely he couldn’t be required to feign an interest in his mother’s, friend’s, sister’s, uncle’s, brother’s heart attack. He had however agreed to monthly visits when he would collect his mother and take her out for dinner, that way he could decide when the occasion was over and hail her a taxi before she had chance to drone on too much.
“And I repeat, the streets are full of violent hooligans, I have been rather busy at work.”
“I want you to promise me you will take her out as soon as things calm down,” Ruby stated.
“And if they don’t?” Nigel asked, he couldn’t resist winding his sister up yet more. “What if the unrest continues, does that mean I am perpetually excused from babysitting duties?”
Ruby’s reply was short and to the point.
“Piss off Nigel.”
And then the line went dead. Nigel allowed himself a chuckle, he could always rely upon his sister to lift his mood, however inadvertently. Besides if she was feeling stretched then it was no-one’s fault but her own; taking on the farm and their mother, as well as her career. And, he was sure his mother had said something about a new man on the scene, but he let so much of her talk drift over his head, he couldn’t be certain it was the case. Not that he was interested enough in his sister to enquire, they only communicated in matters relating to their mother, and then it was always Ruby who initiated the contact. He supposed he should phone their mother, in fact, he decided, he’d do it when he got back to his office, and then he could terminate the call after five minutes of meaningless chat with the perfectly reasonable excuse that he had pressing matters to attend to. He thought back to his conversation with Sir George, something was brewing, he could feel it, like a charge of excitement running through his nervous system, making him ready for the fight.
The first hint came when he was called to the Prime Minister’s Office, a little after five. He was ushered swiftly inside, Andrew was walking restlessly, back and forth along the far wall.
“Prime Minister?”
“Thanks for coming over so quickly Nigel, the Commissioner and Home Secretary will be here shortly, I just wanted to speak to you, in private, before they arrive.”
“What’s happened?” Nigel asked.
“We have intelligence reports suggesting that several vigilantly groups have formed in response to the recent violence,” Andrew replied.
“Well, you can hardly blame people wanting to protect their property; although, obviously that won’t be our official line.”
“It’s more than that,
we’re talking about groups of individuals seeking to retaliate by attacking the benefit’s estates,” Andrew finally stopped pacing and stood facing Nigel, hands on hips.
“I see, and you’ve called me here because…?”
“Because I need to know, or rather I’d like your opinion, on how to react to this,” Andrew stated, he’d talked himself into a corner and he knew it.
“The Opposition are going to claim we are responsible for any vigilantly actions because we’ve drawn the clear link between the violence on our streets and those on welfare. Christ, just this afternoon I said their actions were intolerable, and we would not be blackmailed into stalling welfare reform.”
“Prime Minister, Andrew, there is a clear link-”
“Not according to Shelter, Unite and welfare charities, they’ve been clear to emphasise that the violence perpetrated in their name is not of their doing,” Andrew interrupted.
“But still, we all know how the violence started and who the likely trouble makers are, dressing it up differently doesn’t change that. These rioters are not white, middle-class workers, they are at the bottom of the ladder because they chose to be there, and the rest of the hard working men and women of this country should not be expected to fund their existence,” Nigel argued.
“What? Are you trying to get me branded as an elitist racist, as well as a trouble maker, christ I-”
This time is was Nigel’s turn to interrupt. “Obviously I’m not suggesting that’s what you announce to the press, but that doesn’t make it untrue. You can’t allow yourself to be influenced by charges of inciting public disorder simply because you’ve told the truth. Besides, most people are not that ignorant, they’ve made the connection between the benefit’s estates and the unrest.”
“So what are you suggesting I do here Nigel, allow people to take the law into their own hands?” Andrew asked, his knuckles white as he gripped the back of his chair.
An Ordinary Working Man Page 40
