Heaven's Light

by Hurley, Graham

  Charlie barked with laughter. He could hear the anger behind Dekker’s silky tones. If we ever need an attorney-general, he thought, then Dekker’s our man.

  ‘You’re pissed off,’ he ventured. ‘These guys make you crazy.’

  ‘You’re right. They’re cowboys, bandits. We’re the most over-centralized country in the free world. And you can forget democracy, too. It’s an elective dictatorship, pure and simple.’

  Charlie had found an old shopping list. He began to scribble the phrases on the back. Whatever Dekker had been drinking had definitely done the trick.

  ‘Elective what?’

  ‘Dictatorship. They talk about the sovereignty of Parliament but it’s a myth. Ministers do what they like. MPs are here to make it legal. It’s all about turf. It’s all about power. As long as we have the set-up we have, the guys at the top will always want more.’

  ‘So where does that leave us?’

  ‘Us?’

  ‘Down here.’

  ‘Ah.’ Dekker laughed. ‘You mean local government? We’re the enemy, my friend, we’re not part of the constitution at all. We’re an irritant, a nasty species of insect. If they could, they’d get rid of us completely.’

  ‘And do what?’

  ‘God knows. Open a chain of one-stop offices, I should think, administered by some quango or other. Why take the risk with democracy if the locals have ideas of their own?’

  Charlie heard Dekker laughing again. More in sorrow than in anger. ‘So what’s the answer?’ he asked.

  There was a long silence. Charlie bit into the toast. Then Dekker was back on the phone. ‘I’m not sure,’ he said, ‘but Pompey First might be a bloody good start.’

  Hayden Barnaby sat behind the wheel of the Mercedes, anchored in the fast lane of the motorway. Fired by Charlie’s vision of the sunlit political uplands which might lie beyond victory in the local elections, he’d spent half an hour on the phone to one of the local programming editors at Meridian Broadcasting, the local ITV station. The conversation had led to a lunch invitation, and the lunch had lasted most of the afternoon.

  The editor was a sallow young man called Hendricks. His brief at Meridian included local politics and Barnaby’s talk of Pompey First had interested him. Over spaghetti Marinara and a good Chianti he’d pushed to find out just how robust a political infant Barnaby and his colleagues might deliver.

  The Mercedes crested Portsdown Hill and began the long descent to the tangle of exits beside the new marina complex. Away to the right, the city was webbed with orange street lights and Barnaby wondered whether the notion of Pompey going it alone might not be so farfetched, after all. As Hendricks had pointed out, there were already a number of precedents, little bits of the UK that had wriggled free from Whitehall’s grip and acquired a degree of real independence. Jersey was one, Guernsey another, the Isle of Man a third. If they could do it, why not Portsmouth?

  When he arrived Kate was in the bath. The room was tiny, shelves overflowing with potted plants. Barnaby shut the door, sitting on the linen box, his shoes discarded, his feet on the side of the tub. Kate’s toes poked through a mountain of bubbles. Every now and again, she pushed at the hot-water tap, thickening the clouds of steam.

  Barnaby had been telling her about Hendricks’s enthusiasm for Pompey First. He controlled the weekly political programme. He had real influence.

  ‘What’s he going to do?’

  ‘Depends on us. If we come up with something interesting, something original, he’s talking about a fullblown studio debate, us and the other major parties. Can you imagine that? Forty-five minutes? Region-wide?’

  Kate was soaping her face, her eyes tightly shut. ‘So what did you tell him?’

  ‘I told him we’d be there. I told him we’d be very keen indeed.’

  ‘But what have we got to show him?’

  Barnaby reached for the flannel in the sink. Steam had mottled his image in the mirror but nothing could disguise the breadth of his smile. He fingered a tiny scab on his chin. ‘I said our investment was in people, in a genuinely local democracy. We wanted lots more councillors. We wanted them paid. We wanted mediation groups, neighbourhood by neighbourhood, citizens’ juries sitting on all the big policy issues, city-wide referenda before the final decision.’

  There was a surge of water in the bath behind him. He turned round and handed Kate the flannel. She was sitting upright, mopping the soap from her face.

  ‘You’ve been reading all those articles I gave you.’

  ‘You’re right.’

  ‘So what did he say?’

  ‘He said he agreed. He said the Brits were political infants. That’s the phrase he used. He talked about Europe a lot. He knows their systems inside out, the way they organize themselves, the way power’s stayed with the regions.’

  ‘Where in Europe?’

  ‘France, Germany, Italy, Spain, you name it. These places are light years ahead of us. You want something to happen in Barcelona and, bang, it’s there. None of this fannying up and down to London. None of those queues at the minister’s door. These people have real authority, real discretion, and they use it.’

  Kate was still peering up at him. She looked, if anything, a little nervous. She liked this shiny new car Hayden had found. But she wasn’t sure, yet, about the top speed.

  ‘I thought we were talking about Pompey First,’ she said uncertainly. ‘Isn’t Barcelona just a little bit bigger?’

  Barnaby shook his head. ‘Same principle,’ he said briefly. ‘Size is no bar.’

  ‘But Spain’s different, my love. So are Germany and France. To be like them we’d need to change everything. Either that or opt out entirely.’

  ‘I agree.’

  ‘What do you mean you agree? You agree to change? Or you agree to opting out entirely?’

  ‘Either. Makes no difference.’

  ‘Nonsense. Just listen to yourself. It makes every difference. If you think we can change the entire country, I’m afraid you’re out of your head. The only other option …’ she pursued a small plastic duck with the flannel ‘… is going it alone.’ She looked up again. ‘Is that what you’re saying? We blow up the bridges and float away?’

  Barnaby told her about the Channel Islands and the Isle of Man. Apart from defence and foreign affairs, they had total autonomy. They could raise their own taxes and spend them exactly as they chose.

  Kate shook her head.

  ‘Jersey’s stuffed full of millionaires,’ she said. ‘So’s the Isle of Man.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. The precedent’s there. And, in any case, it’s the money that follows the set-up, not the other way round. Get the set-up right, keep the taxes low, and the money floods in. After that, you can do anything. Look at Liechtenstein and Monaco. Buckets of money. Both of them.’

  ‘And you really think that would happen here?’ Kate’s toe found the chain at the end of the bath. ‘In Pompey?’

  Barnaby stretched out his hand for a towel. ‘I know it would. It’s happening already.’

  ‘Oh?’ Kate stood up, the water cascading down her body. ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. His name’s Zhu.’ Barnaby grinned, taking off his jacket. ‘In case you’d forgotten.’

  The tall thin figure in the shadows made Jessie jump. She was hauling the dog along the apron of pebble beach across from Charlie’s house. Normally she avoided walking alone after dark but Oz was all the security anyone could ever need. Scenting the stranger, he began to strain at the leash, growling.

  ‘It’s me, Manik. Tell that fucker to behave himself.’

  Relieved, Jessie bent to the dog and fondled him behind the ears. Manik was one of the few friends she’d shared with Haagen. Like her, he’d ended up in Merrist House and, like her, he’d done a runner.

  ‘You get the call from Haagen?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘He’s coming home.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘The next week or two. He’s got new documents, new passpo
rt, the lot. Asked me to pass the word.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Tonight. He phoned a couple of hours ago.’ He jerked his thumb at the row of houses across the road. ‘I was going to call by but you saved me the trouble.’

  Jessie caught the slur in his voice and knew he’d been shooting up. There was an uncomfortable silence. Then Manik laughed. ‘I can fucking sell you some,’ he said, ‘if you’re that desperate.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘Good girl.’ He reached for the support of the wall. ‘Be good to have H back, eh?’

  *

  Hayden Barnaby was still on the mobile to Charlie Epple when he signalled left and swung the Mercedes into Farthing Lane. He’d rung Charlie to pass on Hendricks’s thoughts about the various constitutional doors that a Pompey First victory at the polls might unlock, but the moment he’d mentioned the Channel Islands, speculating about a modest degree of independence, Charlie had countered with news of his own. He’d been talking to John Dekker again, the lawyer advising the Strategy Unit. This was the guy with the book of rules, the guy who really understood the small print and, according to Charlie, he was barely a step away from open rebellion. He’d never heard such anger, such contempt. If a lawyer was this committed, surely the punters would take the hint. If only they knew. If only Pompey First had the bottle to push the cause as far and as fast as it could possibly go.

  Barnaby eased the Mercedes into a parking bay opposite his house. He could still smell the lemony shower gel with which Kate had soaped him down.

  ‘What cause?’ he enquired idly.

  ‘UDI. Unilateral Declaration of Independence. Going it alone. We have to do it. We have to.’

  Listening to Charlie, Barnaby wondered whether they were both certifiable or whether there might be a way. As far as Charlie was concerned, of course, there were no doubts. Independence, genuine independence, was a great fat apple just waiting to fall from Whitehall’s tree. All it needed, he kept saying, was a single issue, a single headline. Something to make the punters understand. Something to march them off to the barricades.

  Charlie broke off, laughing. ‘So where were you?’ he said.

  ‘When?’

  ‘When I phoned earlier to tell you all this?’

  Barnaby hesitated a moment, gazing out at the shell of the Garrison Church. Charlie had guessed about him and Kate. He knew he had. ‘Debating policy,’ he said lightly. ‘With our Labour friend.’

  ‘Yeah? Getting one or two things straight?’

  ‘Mmmm … maybe.’

  Barnaby brought the conversation to an end and slipped the mobile into his pocket. Locking the car door, he glanced over his shoulder. Liz was up in the spare room, gazing down at him, but when he waved she turned away.

  BOOK FOUR

  April/May 1996

  ‘You are warned that the pier and adjacent hotel are liable to be cleared away at a day’s notice in the event of war …’

  Guidebook issued for the annual

  BMA conference at Southsea, May 1899

  Chapter Twelve

  From the hospitality suite, high above Meridian’s biggest studio, Hayden Barnaby had a perfect view of the set of The South Decides. The recording had been in progress now for nearly twenty minutes, pictures fed to the big transmission monitor at the other end of the room, but Barnaby couldn’t resist the view from the window. From here, through the thick soundproof glass, he could look down on the semi-circle of black leather chairs in the pool of brilliant light. Beyond the rostrum, in the half-darkness, the big studio cameras prowled back and forth, eavesdropping on the conversation, responding to the director’s every command. Barnaby tried to visualize the technical wizardry that took these pictures and fed them on to hundreds of thousands of televisions region-wide. Charlie had been right. It was the media that could make or break Pompey First and with the local elections just five days away, the campaign was going exactly to plan.

  Barnaby felt the lightest of touches on his arm. Hendricks, the programme’s editor, was holding the bottle of Sauvignon over his empty glass.

  ‘May I?’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Barnaby’s eyes were back on the studio floor. The design for the seating plan had come from Hendricks and it served Pompey First wonderfully well. Kate Frankham sat on the left of the presenter, faced with her local opponents from the three major parties. She was wearing a beautifully cut skirt and jacket whose colour – sea-green – perfectly complemented the huge black and white blow-up of HMS Victory that dominated the backdrop. By contrast, the others looked dowdy, two men in suits and a shrill woman from the Labour Party, who was talking now about Labour’s policies on devolution. Of course people wanted power back from London. And Blair’s plans for regional assemblies would guarantee them just that. She leaned back, confident that she’d stolen Pompey First’s thunder, her smile issuing a direct challenge to Kate, to whom the presenter threw an enquiring glance. Kate pointed out at once that Labour’s regional assemblies were simply a talking shop, a sop to public opinion. They had no powers to raise taxes or pass legislation. They wouldn’t even be able to replace the budgets and functions of the regional quangos that Labour claimed were so repugnant. On the contrary, they’d be as much the prisoner of Whitehall as the towns and cities they were supposed to represent. The Labour woman began visibly to bristle. Was Kate suggesting that Labour had no faith in local government? Was this another of the lies that Pompey First was peddling?

  Kate smiled. Hayden had warned her to expect exactly this line of attack. She’d turned her back on Labour. She’d deserted them. She could no longer be trusted. The presenter was still waiting for her answer. ‘Well?’ he prompted. ‘Is that fair comment?’

  Kate shook her head. ‘Absolutely not. New Labour are as frightened of local government as the Tories. They don’t say so, not in so many words, but behind the scenes everyone knows it’s true. High-spending authorities will wreck their image. There’s even talk of sending in the commissioners if things get really sticky. That’s the language of war, not peace. No,’ her face expressed mild regret, ‘I don’t expect Portsmouth will find many friends in a Labour government.’

  Barnaby heard Hendricks chuckle. ‘She’s good,’ he said. ‘She’s very good indeed. You’re lucky to have found her.’

  Barnaby raised his glass in a silent toast. Charlie’s insistence on a media training course had paid enormous dividends. The afternoons in a stuffy little studio above Wardour Street, face to face with a succession of off-duty ITN interviewers, had turned Kate into a television veteran. Quicker than most, she’d come to understand what an intimate medium it was. How there was no place for formal speeches. How the tiniest detail of body language could signal nervousness or insincerity. How humour and warmth would win infinitely more votes than yards and yards of dogma.

  The presenter was quizzing her again on the perils of going it alone. Without being anchored to a national party, didn’t Pompey First risk turning the city’s back on the UK? Barnaby tensed. Four months of brainstorming this issue, of bouncing the suggestion off colleague after colleague, had taught him an important lesson. The people of Portsmouth weren’t ready for independence. Not real independence. Not yet.

  The other guests on the rostrum were looking hard at Kate. They, too, knew that this was the chink in Pompey First’s armour, their one real chance to halt the enormous momentum that Charlie Epple’s juggernaut had built up. The electorate in Portsmouth were deeply wary of change. They had a deference to authority bred from generations of reliance on the naval dockyard. Didn’t Pompey First put this precious loyalty under threat?

  ‘Definitely not.’ Kate looked almost amused. ‘Very definitely not. What we have is a strong belief in city governance. We believe in focus, in concentrating all our time and effort on the people we represent. What we don’t believe in is diluting those efforts by playing to two audiences. Not being part of a national party, part of some remote machine, is a strength, not a weakness.’<
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  ‘So where’s the big idea?’

  ‘We’re the big idea. Our very smallness, our lack of scale is the big idea. We’re small-print politicians, neighbourhood politicians, family across-the-street politicians. We’re not into gesture politics. We’ve no time for Smith Square or Walworth Road. But we do our homework. And we’ll get things done.’

  Hendricks was miming applause. He was looking at the screen now, a head-and-shoulders close-up of Kate as she listened to the Tory councillor tallying the blessings that had lately come Portsmouth’s way. Millions of pounds from the Millennium Fund. The huge D-Day celebrations, televised across the world. A whole stage of the Tour de France, beginning and ending on Southsea Common. Wasn’t this evidence that the city was on the up? Wasn’t the truth that the people of Portsmouth were grateful for all this coverage?

  ‘Of course we’re grateful,’ Kate answered briskly. ‘And of course we welcome the publicity. But we get all this attention because we have lots to offer. That’s our point. That’s what lies behind Pompey First. We’re tired of going cap in hand to other people. We’re tired of Whitehall telling us what we can and can’t do. All we want, all we’re asking for, is the chance to make our own decisions, to take control of our own lives.’

  The presenter leaned forward. ‘By going it alone?’

  ‘By voicing an alternative.’

  ‘All by yourselves?’

  ‘Of course.’ She smiled. ‘If you’re not prepared to walk alone in politics, you’ll never get off your knees.’

  Barnaby shook his head in admiration. The line was perfect, securing an emphatic nod of agreement from the presenter, who turned at once to the Liberal-Democrat, a heavily bearded lecturer at Portsmouth University. Didn’t Pompey First have a point? Might next week’s election not be the beginning of a watershed in British politics?

  Barnaby stepped away from the window. Trays of canapés and sandwiches were laid out on a table beside the television. He picked up a plate. The sheer pressure of campaigning over the last few weeks had made regular meals a distant memory. He bit into a chicken leg, watching the Liberal-Democrat bewailing the ethics of Pompey First. Like the Labour Party, the Lib-Dems had watched some of their best candidates turn their backs on years of mainstream politics and throw in their hands with Charlie Epple’s boisterous infant. The notion of serving only the city, so beautifully simple, had touched a nerve in almost every corner of Portsmouth, and Barnaby had been astonished at the calibre of the membership they’d attracted.