Catalyst

by Michael Knaggs

  “Removing people permanently from society as a proposed solution is not new; it is too simple and obvious to be regarded as innovative in any way. It already happens, but only in very exceptional cases and for the severest of crimes. But somehow it now seems to have more substance. Previously the whole concept was untested, in terms of both the treatment and the subsequent health of the patient. What we’ve now had is at least a peek at the latter. If you remove an irritation which is infecting the whole body, then the process of healing can be spectacularly fast. It can be argued – and indeed a large portion of the press has argued – that it is dangerous to use the example of this one incident on this one estate to draw any conclusions of statistical relevance. They are absolutely correct in making everyone aware of that. However, it is the best indicator we have with which to consider the way forward.

  “The government has done conspicuously well over the past five years or so in putting in place every conceivable facility and opportunity for these gangs to pursue alternatives to their antisocial behaviour. It deserves our praise and thanks for those efforts, and a significant proportion of its target group have responded by giving up the streets. I also applaud those who have made that life change, because many will have done so whilst facing the might of peer pressure which I believe is the single most powerful shaper of behaviour in our society today. But what of the rest? Those who continue to ignore these opportunities in order to inflict a climate of social terror on their immediate neighbours and other residential areas. Those, in effect, who have no ambition or intention of being part of community life.

  “The government are proposing to further invest in order to make more facilities available. I am sure that much cleverer men and women than me have decided that is the right thing to do. And, for all our sakes, I hope they’re right. However, I personally doubt it, because I think they are addressing the wrong problem. On the evidence of the thousands of comments made to me over the past few weeks, what we want to know is what they intend to do about those who will not – not ever – change their behaviour.”

  The applause was spontaneous and energetic. Several members of the press, though not joining in, nodded in agreement.

  “It’s interesting, isn’t it, that these debates and discussions always seem to centre around what we should be doing for these thugs, these vandals, these low-lifes; what we need to put in place for them, how much we can afford to spend on them. What someone should be addressing is what they can do for us. The people who never do anything wrong; the ones who live within the law; the vast majority of nice, friendly people. Well, for a start, they can separate us from the others! Or, more accurately, keep the others away from us – permanently!”

  When the applause died down, he played his highest trump card.

  “If we – the section of the public represented by the age profile of the 3AF – have a mind to, I believe we can bring about that change in policy which will address our issues and our concerns. We are, by a considerable margin, the single largest category of voters in the electorate, and, if we can devise a mechanism – a process – for concerting our efforts, our opinions, and our votes, I reckon we can do just about anything we like!”

  By 9.30 am, there were several hundred people already jostling for position along Old Bailey, the road which played host to – and shared its name with – the Central Criminal Court. The police had been expecting a large turnout to witness the arrival of James Lorimar, but were taken by surprise by the timing and size of the initial crowd.

  By 10.30 they were struggling to maintain a clear passage for the arrival of the police security vehicle bringing the prisoner to court, and the massive media presence was having difficulty finding prime positions to record and relay the event. Additional police, arriving in half a dozen personnel carriers, were forced to disembark on Ludgate Hill, a quarter of a mile from the court and, without wishing to administer a heavy hand to an excitable but peaceful gathering, simply placed themselves along the roadside to gently restrain the crowd which, by 10.55, had spread a half mile back along the approach route to the court. The whole scene was more reminiscent of a Royal Wedding.

  This comparison was reinforced by the hundreds of banners and placards held aloft as the vehicle bearing James Lorimar finally reached the outliers in the crowd. Proclamations, ranging from the simple ‘Free James Lorimar’ to the more subtle ‘Sir James Lorimar – Street Cleaner’ and the tabloidish ‘Lorimarvellous!’, were brandished with passionate enthusiasm as the eager press turned cameras and camcorders on them to capture the mood.

  Their focus of attention quickly switched as the small cavalcade stopped in front of the court building. The cries reached nearly fever pitch as the rear doors of the main vehicle were opened and they caught their first glimpse of the man they had come to support. James Lorimar, handcuffed to a very large policeman, was wearing his now-famous black baseball cap, but there was no attempt at further concealing his face; no dramatic head-covering to frustrate the assembly. This seemed to establish an immediate bond between him and the onlookers and there were shouts of “We’re with you, James!” and “We’re all on your side!” A member of one group shouted out the words adorning the banner they were holding high above their heads – “Come and live on our street, James!” Lorimar turned and smiled at the crowd as he entered the building in a strobe-fest of flashing cameras.

  As he disappeared from view, a small section of the crowd began to chant his name, like a goal scorer in an important football match.

  “Lor–i–mar! Lor-i-mar!”

  The chant was picked up by those closest to them in the mass of people, and then spread along the length of the road and beyond, engulfing all present in the display of solidarity. The TV reporters speaking into camera had to shout loudly to get the message back to their viewers, but were clearly enjoying being part of the event. No-one on Old Bailey itself showed any sign of leaving immediately and the chant continued. After ten minutes or so, the noise died down and people drifted off until the road was clear except for the remnants of a media presence and the usual traffic of court officials and prison vans arriving and departing.

  Tom Brown, along with half the country, was watching the TV coverage of the event with a number of his staff in one of the meeting rooms at his constituency office on Westbourne Avenue. He was relishing the atmosphere of the event and mentally assessing how he would use this collective mood in his own crusade. Following his delight at reading the newspaper accounts of George Holland’s exploits of the previous evening, this was a very thick layer of icing on his cake. He was wondering, in fact, whether he would have to do anything himself to make his proposals a reality, whilst he had two high profile people bending the population’s will with such apparent ease.

  Then, as the man turned to the crowd just prior to entering the building and the camera zoomed in on his face, he shot forward in his chair as if in an attempt to further enlarge the image. Although he said nothing, everyone in the room could sense his feeling of shock. Tom recovered himself quickly and leant back in his seat, seemingly relaxed again. All returned to watching the screen without making comment.

  At a few minutes past 12.30 pm, the Hollands drove in to Meadow Village. Immediately on arriving home, their house phone rang. It was Henry Moorcroft, following up on his meeting with George that morning.

  “I spoke to my contact at the DWP, George. He can’t give a definitive answer, only an opinion, but he’s pretty well informed. I’m afraid he thinks they’re unlikely to agree to your using the REP database.”

  “Why’s that, do you think?”

  “Well, he said it was because the request is a personal one and not directly linked to your being a member of the 3AF.”

  “But the initiative has come directly out of the meetings of nine different branches. Surely… ”

  “I agree in principle, George, and as I said, that’s not official, just his opinion. If they ask for my opinion, I’ll certainly support your request. That�
�s all I can do.”

  “Okay, thanks, Henry. I really do appreciate your help with this. We’ll keep our fingers crossed. And thanks for your hospitality yesterday.”

  “No thanks necessary, George. It was an absolute pleasure.”

  George ended the call then picked up the phone again. His call was answered immediately.

  “Hi, George.”

  “Hi, Tom. Look, I’m hoping to do a mail-out to everyone on the REP to ascertain whether the vote at the debate and the reaction at these other meetings is representative of the wider population.”

  “Just let me stop you there, George. Remind me what the REP is.”

  “It’s the Register of Eligible Persons. The DWP’s list of people who have retired or are working after state retirement age in the UK. ‘Registered’, in this context, means that the individual, on retirement or reaching the qualifying age, has subscribed to the government’s home PC scheme, at which time they are automatically added to the national database.”

  “Right, got it,” said Tom. “And from then on all communication from the DWP and such is done via email and all information posted on a special website. So you’re planning to use it for your mail-out?”

  “It’s the only way it can be done to reach that population. There are about sixteen million targets. But I’ve just got a message that I’ll probably be denied use of the database. I thought you should be aware that certain forces in the government may try to block a legitimate use of the facility because of potential pressure on their policies.”

  Tom laughed.

  “Thanks for the heads-up, George. You’re really getting the hang of this political thing, aren’t you? Well, without wanting to sound too overconfident, I suggest you start working on the format and content of the questionnaire right now and leave me to oil the machinery if necessary. I think it’s a great idea. And by the way, many congratulations on your speech last night. Tony emailed me a copy about three o’clock in the morning, although I have to admit to not reading it until after six-thirty. Lazy sods, we politicians, you know. Come to think of it, it wouldn’t harm you having a quiet word with Tony about your survey. And I trust you not to tell him it was my idea.”

  “Yes, I’m sure he’d love that. I’ll do it – and your secret’s safe with me.”

  “And then I reckon you and Irene deserve a holiday after all this. You could work on your questionnaire on a beach somewhere, I’m sure.”

  “If I mention a holiday to Irene, she’ll have me climbing Ben Nevis or something. She doesn’t do relaxation very well.”

  “Even better; it must be boring in those bivouacs if you don’t have anything to do. The survey will come on leaps and bounds.”

  George laughed.

  “Perhaps we will have a holiday. In fact, we’ll definitely do it. Yes, definitely.”

  As Tom ended the call, Grace walked into his office.

  “Do you mind telling me what that was about in there?” she asked. “You looked like you’d seen a ghost.”

  “No fooling you, eh, Grace,” he replied. “It’s just that I could have sworn I recognised the guy when he turned to the camera. Someone I knew really well, in fact. Anyway, he died some years ago, so obviously it’s not him. But, yes, I guess you could say that for a moment I thought I’d seen a ghost.”

  “No doubt we’ll find out a lot about our mystery avenger during the course of the next few days,” said Grace, “but I shouldn’t count on his having come back from the dead to do his good deed.”

  “Did you see the news and the papers this morning on George’s speech?” he asked. “There is such a force at work out there, Grace; we had just better be ready to align ourselves with it before it flattens us. We have to grasp the nettle and run with it.”

  Grace nodded, smiling.

  “It might help if we didn’t mix our metaphors on the way,” she said.”

  “And, I just got a call from George himself. He’s planning an electronic mail-out to the registered retirement listing. Do you know that list represents forty percent of the electorate and over fifty percent of those who actually vote? Well that’s not a bad start if he’s suggesting some sort of alliance for pushing through some reforms. And, another thing… ”

  “Just hold on,” Grace interrupted. “We’re on dangerous ground here – or at the very least we’re getting ahead of ourselves. If we’re talking about fighting an election, which is the only time when those electoral figures mean anything, we’re a long way from integrating your proposals into a credible manifesto. I don’t want to risk the might of your anger by bringing reality into the discussion, but we haven’t got near to discussing with Andrew and Reggie how the funding is going to work.”

  “Well, thanks for jumping in like that, Grace,” said Tom. “I apologise for going on about probably the most exciting prospect for change this century, and omitting to mention the riveting topic of finance… ”

  “It’s all very well getting huffy… ” began Grace.

  “Huffy?” interrupted Tom. “What the hell’s ‘huffy’? I wouldn’t have a clue how to get huffy!”

  They both laughed and relaxed.

  “What I mean,” said Grace, “is that before we charge into the public arena with promises of huge changes, we need to be absolutely sure we can deliver. Something’s got to pay for it in the short-term even if you’re right about long-term savings or cost-neutrality. But we haven’t got anywhere near to a conclusion on that.”

  “Just imagine though,” said Tom, “what would happen if we made the promises riding on the back of this wave of demand for change. Once the promise is out there, we would have to deliver.”

  “You’re not seriously suggesting we hold our own Party to ransom?” Grace was open-mouthed. “There are already massive demands on the NHS and Social Services for more money to support the same cross-section of voters that you’re pinning your hopes on. Are they going to vote for money being diverted from essential services to protect what is, let’s be accurate about this, a small minority of people who are likely to meet with harm in the future?”

  “I know what you’re saying, Grace, about the high maintenance cost of this group of people, but you are missing the point with that last statement. It’s only a small number who would be affected as things stand because they all stay away from places where they should have every right to go without worrying about it. And this is not just for the retired population; think about the Cullen Field residents, how their lives have changed. What proportion of them are retired do you think? Ten percent? Probably nearer five. Let me tell you what I think is going to happen, Grace. And if I’m right, I’ll say ‘I told you so’, and if I’m wrong, I want you to promise you won’t say anything. Okay?”

  Grace smiled. “Okay.”

  “James Lorimar will be convicted of murder and there’ll be a massive campaign to free him. It will be country-wide, not just in Marlburgh. They’ll know that it won’t happen, of course, so there’ll be a demand for a change to the system along the lines of ‘justice before law’ or something like that. There’s enough evidence out there already to make that a certainty. And what that means is that they will want people to have the right to take the law into their own hands – or administer justice outside the law – where they feel it is necessary.

  “In other words, the legalising, or at least condoning, of vigilantism. And there’ll be such a groundswell of feeling that when we get the next Cullen Field type of incident, and then the next, and continue to put the avengers away, it’ll get more and more difficult to contain the public’s anger. Un-less,” he said, drawing out the word, “we convince them that we’ll do the job for them. We’ll identify the bad guys, we’ll single them out; we’ll make sure they’ll never come back. No more bloody pussy-footing around with sick cowboys – let’s start calling them baddies again!”

  Grace was smiling wider as his fervour gained momentum. It made him aware that he was getting carried away and repeating what he’d said to her a do
zen times before. He stopped; then seemed to think of something else and rose from his chair.

  “Oh yes, and at the same time, good old George will become Chief Shop Steward of the… ” he paused to work it out “… NUWF – the National Union of Wrinkled Folk – and he’ll lead protest marches to London from as far a field as Eastbourne and Ashford and the deafening sounds of zimmer and wheelchair on tarmac will reverberate around the world, and civilisation as we know it will cease to exist!”

  He was striding round the office, staring ahead with demonic eyes and repeatedly pointing into the air to emphasise each point. Grace was laughing more than he had ever heard her laugh before, with that same girly tinkle. He stopped in front of her and wagged his finger in her face.

  “You can laugh, Miss Two-Shoes, but when I rule the world, then you’d better watch out!”

  “I can’t wait,” said Grace, struggling to put on a serious face. “A bit of discipline never did anybody any harm.”

  They looked at each other for a long moment in silence. Tom sat back down in his chair still holding Grace’s eyes with his.

  “I’ll remember you said that,” he said.

  “I’ll remind you if you don’t,” she smiled back.

  CHAPTER 10

  The trial of James Lorimar was to be disproportionately short in relation to its lasting impact outside the court. It did, however, include the drama of a faltering start and a breathtaking conclusion.

  The most senior permanent judge at the Central Criminal Court, with the title of Recorder of London, was presiding in the new show-piece courtroom in which the public gallery had been extended to more than three times its original capacity. It could now accommodate up to 100 observers, and every seat was taken. As the courtroom settled, the Honourable Justice Owen Templar QC made a direct appeal to the public gallery. He was a man of medium height and build, made to look larger by the uniform of his office, which ebbed and flowed with his embellished theatrical movements. His features were sharp and distinguished, with bushy white eyebrows which at first sight looked like an extension of his wig. A rimless pair of glasses perched on the end of his nose.