by Paul Finch
But despite his being outspoken on various social issues and a keen defender of the environment, there were several less savoury aspects to Phil Barton’s character. For example, he was living with a woman whose marriage had fallen apart because of the affair he’d conducted with her, while in his mid- and late-teens he’d been busted twice for possessing cannabis and three times for having LSD, instances his political opponents would never let him forget, though in the manner of so many astute and unscrupulous campaigners, he’d managed to turn these minus points to his advantage. The fact that he had ‘a partner’ rather than a wife was something he made an issue of – it fitted in neatly with the hip, libertarian trends of Blair’s Britain; while his colourful past eminently suited the reputation he’d cultivated for intellectual rebelliousness – in the mid-1980s he’d been prominent in the local students’ union, vociferously opposing everything from American cruise missiles to imports of South African fruit, and more recently had tried to take the government of Great Britain to court over its bombing raids on Iraq, a ploy which had failed miserably but which had raised his public profile no end.
In fact, Phil Barton seemed to have done impressively well out of his days as an activist. With zero qualifications, either work-based or educational, a criminal record, a habit of shouting people down in arguments, and to top it all bad breath, you’d have expected to find that by his fortieth birthday he was a miserable recluse, out of work and permanently stuck in low-rent accommodation, rather than a prospective MP whose opinion was always sought and whose presence was required at all the most fashionable parties.
At least this was Ray Skelton’s view, as he waited in the dark beyond the lecture hall door.
It was nearly nine o’clock and the debate was drawing to a close. Barton was in there somewhere, on a panel with several other VIPs, discussing the whys and wherefores of a possible Lib-Lab pact. When it was all over, the students would stream out and invade the local pubs. They’d try to take some of the celebs with them, and would probably succeed with Barton as no doubt it would be suggested they’d treat him to a couple of drinks. Occasionally with Phil Barton, his true persona shone through – he earned a lot more money than all of those students put together, but he was never backward in coming forward if a bun-fight was on offer.
As expected, the entire crowd came out together, so Skelton had to withdraw into the shadows and bide his time. He followed them across campus at a distance until they reached The Earl Buchanan pub, where they went inside. Again Skelton hung back, securing himself a spot under the elm trees in the park across the road.
It was two hours later when Barton finally re-emerged. He’d been drinking, though he wasn’t quite drunk, sauntering along with hands in pockets rather than going for his car. By sheer fortune, he chose to take a shortcut across the park. It was in its deepest, most unlit section where he met Skelton. No sooner had he spotted the hulking shape beside the path than what felt like a cannonball exploded in his face, and his world became a dizzy, downward spiral of noise, pain and confusion.
*
When Barton finally came round, his numb, sticky cheek rested on cold stone.
He groaned and shifted position – his left temple throbbed, loose teeth waggled beneath his probing tongue. Still half-dazed, he levered himself up into a sitting position. The concrete floor was black with oil and soot, and rolled away into shadow on all sides. From the still, dank air, he had the impression he was indoors somewhere – though in a cavernous place, a warehouse or vehicle depot; by the looks and feel of it, derelict. Slowly, his eyes attuned to the dimness. He thought he could make out scraps of rubbish littered across the floor; waste paper, dead leaves.
Far above there was a broken skylight, naked stars visible beyond it. Only the faintest illumination spilled down from this, but a moment later even that was blotted out as a tall, broad figure stood in front of it. Barton swallowed hard; a bolt of ice went through him. He’d recently put his name to a newspaper campaign to rid the city’s nightclubs of their aggressive, bullying doormen, and now assumed this incident was a response to that. Though he thought he knew how these things worked, he couldn’t be exactly sure. They’d already clobbered him, so most likely he’d now get the warning, though he couldn’t rule out another kicking just for good measure. Mind you, the more cuts and bruises he walked away with, possibly the better:
Crusading councillor defies gangsters
“They didn’t scare me,” says Barton
Mob strikes out, but MP-in-waiting shrugs it off
“How’re things in South Africa, Phil?” Skelton asked in a quiet voice.
“Eh?” Barton was baffled: no threats, no intimidation? “What … what do you mean, South Africa?”
“How are things in South Africa? Simple enough question.”
“Okay … I guess.”
Skelton snickered. “Okay? You call a murder epidemic okay? You call law and disorder on a terrifying scale okay?”
“Alright … it’s not okay,” Barton said. “Jesus … what is this?”
“FUCKING RIGHT IT’S NOT OKAY!” Skelton shouted, the words thundering in the vast, empty building. A moment passed, the echoes ringing and re-ringing as they died away. He lowered his voice again. “So much for your anti-apartheid dream, eh?”
“W–what?” Barton’s voice was tremulous.
“It was you, wasn’t it, who organised the big student party in the town centre on the day Nelson Mandela got released?”
“Well yeah, but … I mean, things are better over there now than they were.”
“And how the fucking hell would you know? You ever been to Africa?”
Barton tried to swallow again, but his mouth had gone dry. “N–no.”
“Didn’t think so. But you’ve still got a lot of opinions on it … at least, you always used to have.”
“Look, just tell me what this is about.”
“Led any more demos recently, Phil? Any more sit-ins?”
“W–why would I?”
“Oh, sorry.” Skelton snickered again. “There are no calls to ban fruit exports from black African tyrannies are there! No demands to cease trade with genocidal nutcases who happen to be the same colour as the poor sods they torture and starve and terrorise.”
“Look, I don’t know what you’re on about …”
“Liar! You do! You fucking do!” Skelton paused, breathing heavily. “Any idea what would happen if you tried to organise a demo somewhere like Cameroon, Phil? Zimbabwe? Swaziland?”
“No …”
“No?”
“I don’t know that much about it,” Barton protested.
“That never stopped you in the past.”
“Look, I’ve always opposed abuses of human rights …”
“No you haven’t! Only where it was fashionable, only where it made you look good in front of your friends … and by doing that you’ve helped protect some of the worst criminals modern politics has ever produced.”
“It’s not true …”
“Put this on!” Skelton pushed something forward. The object bounced like a football – though it was much larger than that; it rolled lazily across the narrow space between them.
“What is it?” Barton said, puzzled even as he caught hold of the thing.
It was heavy, coarse, made from thick, damp rubber.
“Put it on!” Skelton ordered.
Only when the acrid smell engulfed him did Barton realise what he was holding.
“Oh God!” he screamed. “No … please!”
Skelton produced the Browning. Starlight glinted on its shiny chrome finish as he pointed it at Barton’s legs. “Put it on or I’ll kneecap you … then put it on you anyway!”
Staring at the gun in mute terror, the councillor lifted the tyre and looped it over his head. Cold petrol slopped down him.
“Christ in a cartoon!” he gibbered. “This thing’s full …”
“Course it is,” Skelton replied. “You think I’m play
ing at this?”
As if in answer to his own question, he struck a match, the flickering flame casting everything around it into near-blackness.
“Wait!” Barton said in a strangled whimper. “Just wait a minute! What … what do you think you’re gaining by this?”
“Gaining?”
Tears streamed down Barton’s cheeks. “What kind of justice do you think you’re striking a blow for?”
Skelton smiled in the half-dark. “You’re perceptive, I’ll give you that.”
“Go on then … tell me!”
“Your kind of justice, Phil,” Skelton said. “Your kind.”
And with a shrug and a sniff, he threw the match.
*
Later that week, after Skelton had torn up the picture of the child being trampled to death in Rwanda, he went over to St George’s to be confessed.
The church was empty and in half-darkness when he entered. Opaque shadows hung like curtains between the pillars. Rain fell in drenching sheets against the outer walls and stained glass windows, hissing aloud in the high airy vaults of the old and venerable building. Only the altar was illuminated, four meagre candles throwing twinkling light on the white cloths and silver chalice.
Skelton genuflected once, then entered the confessional booth and knelt. It was even darker in there than outside in the church, but the air was rich with the scent of wax and wood polish. He sensed rather than saw the elegant oaken panels around him, and could imagine the ivory crucifix hanging at his right shoulder.
“Are you ready, my child?” asked a deep, resonant voice.
A sheet of semi-transparent gauze was tacked over a square aperture. Behind it, the dark outline of a head was visible.
“Father,” Skelton said, “I just wondered … I just wondered if it’s possible to be God’s strong right hand?”
There was a brief, puzzled silence. “God’s strong right hand?”
“His fist … so to speak.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“Here on Earth,” Skelton tried to explain. “Father … we all have a mission in life. I firmly believe that. But is it possible that some of us might only come to discover that mission much later on?”
“My son, this is a confessional. I’ll be happy to debate these issues with you at some other time, but for the present …”
“This is a confession!” Skelton blurted. “I thought that you, a priest, would understand what I’m saying.”
“I am trying, my son.”
“You see, Father, there is a certain breed of creatures among us who are guilty by default!”
The priest’s voice remained calm, though by his tone he was humouring the supplicant, playing along as if he’d sensed trauma and was trying to salve it. “Guilty of what exactly?”
“Crimes. Against the rest of society. But the sort of crimes that go undetected.”
“If they truly are crimes, they won’t go undetected by God.”
“That’s precisely my point.” Skelton struggled to control his excitement. “The Lord works in mysterious ways, does he not, Father?”
“My son … I fear I’m missing something here.”
“Then answer me this … is it possible that those of us who deserve it will be punished here on Earth?”
“That’s not my understanding of doctrine. If you mean does God intervene in our daily affairs in order to teach us lessons … then, no.”
“No?” This couldn’t be correct. Skelton knew it couldn’t.
“We will only be judged in the afterlife,” the priest added. “That is God’s teaching. Until then, we have free will.”
Skelton had to bite back rising anger. “How can you say that, Father? For my sins, I lost everything. My job, my home, my family. How can you say such a thing?”
“I think I’m beginning to understand you now … you’re trying to make sense of the difficulties life has thrown at you?”
“Not quite. It’s more that I’m trying to make sense of the problem-free lives enjoyed by others.”
“Well, we don’t know that’s the case for certain, do we?” The priest adopted a reproving tone. “Everyone suffers hardship, my son.”
“Some more than others.”
“As I say … we don’t know that, do we?”
Skelton knelt there, helpless. This was not what he’d wanted to hear, though perhaps in his heart of hearts he’d expected it. He hung his head.
“Of course,” the priest reflected, “we’re all entitled to our opinion.”
Skelton glanced up again. Oddly, subtly, the priest’s voice had altered. As before, it was deep and educated – yet now there was a new note in it: a taunt, a crafty insinuation. Beyond the sheet of gauze, the outline of the head hadn’t moved, but Skelton could imagine its eyes fixed upon him. He felt fleeting unease as it occurred to him that he hadn’t checked when official confession times were; he now wondered if he’d perhaps wandered in during an hour when the booths were supposed to be unmanned. Aside from this tiny cubicle, the rest of the church was steeped in silence.
“Our opinion?” Skelton whispered; for some reason his hair prickled.
“As I say … free will. We can think and believe what we like. None of us knows anything for sure.”
“But the rules of faith …”
“Can be interpreted differently from one person to another.” The stentorian voice paused to let its words sink in. “We each of us must find our own way.”
“We each of us have our mission,” Skelton said again, though now it was a statement rather than a question, and, aware of this, the voice made no answer. Not a breath stirred from the shape beyond the portal. It simply waited.
Skelton joined his hands. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned …”
*
“‘Oh generation of vipers, who hath warned you of the wrath to come!’”
Len Hoggins glanced up from the papers on his desk, surprised by the intrusion. He was even more surprised when he saw who the intruder was – his onetime schoolmate, Ray Skelton. The big guy’s chiselled face was waxy pale between his black sideburns; his huge frame was clad shoulder to foot in shiny black motorbike leathers.
Hoggins sat back, not sure whether to smile or frown. As far as he was aware no-one had made an appointment to come in and see him today, least of all this curious character. “I’m sorry … what?” he said.
Skelton closed the door behind him, shutting out the trilling phones and chattering voices of the newsroom. The small office was suddenly snug and quiet. It still smelled of fresh paint and new carpets.
“Matthew three, verse seven,” Skelton explained. “I thought you, the editor of a Catholic newspaper, would have recognised that?”
Hoggins gave a vaguely amused shrug. “I can’t repeat the gospels parrot fashion.”
“Neither can I,” Skelton said, hands behind his back. It gave Hoggins a mild jolt to observe that his visitor now leaned against the door as if making sure it couldn’t be opened from the other side. “I only remember that little gem from when I was twelve, from when that psychotic old hag of an RE teacher quoted it repeatedly at me as she hauled me by the hair to the headmaster’s office.”
Hoggins tried to mask his growing concern. He’d never seen a face as white as Skelton’s now was, at least not on a living man. The deathly pallor brought out the ex-copper’s eyes like dark jewels.
“Miss … er, Miss Burns, wasn’t it?”
Skelton nodded. “That’s right. Bad-tempered bitch with a hearing aid … and the thing never bloody worked. Always had to scream everything, so she could hear it herself.”
“I remember that.” Cautiously, Hoggins slid a hand across his desk to the intercom button. “What was it you’d drawn on the blackboard while she was out?”
“I hadn’t drawn anything,” Skelton said. “Somebody else had. It was a cunt. An open cunt.”
“Oh yeah.” Hoggins winced as he remembered.
“Sorry, is that so
rt of language inappropriate in here?”
“Well … it’s a bit strong.”
“We’re both red-blooded fellas, though. We can take it.”
“Yeah.”
“That’s what you told me that day … remember?”
Hoggins shook his head, blankly.
“‘Cheer up … you can take it!’” Skelton reminded him. “That was after I’d got six on the arse. I mean, it wasn’t as if I wasn’t used to it … what, with my old man off his head on ale all the time and walloping me like there was no tomorrow. But it still seemed unfair. ‘You can take it’, eh?”
Hoggins tried to make light of it. “Kids are so sympathetic.”
Skelton nodded. “Still, I learned something that day … GET AWAY FROM THAT FUCKING BUTTON, LEN!”
Hoggins snatched his hand back – and blanched at the sight of the heavy pistol the visitor had suddenly pulled on him. The urge to duck was strong, to dodge, to run for his life. But Hoggins didn’t dare; in fact he went rigid, couldn’t even move. “Jesus, Ray …what … what’s going on?”
With slow deliberation, Skelton trained the weapon on Hoggins’s forehead.
“I learned,” he said, “I learned that it isn’t so much the justice of the act … as the example. Miss Burns didn’t drag me out of class that day because I’d been bad. It was because someone had been bad … and because though she didn’t know who, she didn’t like me, so I’d do. The message would be lost on no-one, you see. Not even the person who’d really done it. I mean, he wouldn’t own up, but he certainly wouldn’t do it again. Eh, Len?”
Hoggins had raised his hands but he could only shake his head, perplexed. His entire world seemed to have shrunk to that little black hole in the pistol’s muzzle. “You’re … you’re telling me all this is about that! Jesus Christ, Ray …”
“You’re suddenly very quick to take the Lord’s name in vain, Len. That’s twice now.”
“Look … we were kids!”
“But you weren’t a kid during the Kosovo crisis, were you?”
“What?” Hoggins couldn’t be sure what he’d just heard. The eyes of the man accosting him gleamed with fanaticism.
