As far as the eye can see

by Phil Walden

  Harris fought to catch his breath. “Until you’ve won, keep a lid on all this green stuff. To folk round here it’s middle class fancy bollocks.”

  *

  An index finger shot up to give a one minute warning. Trisha Hunt nervously checked her computer screen once more before fixing her gaze on the autocue poised to roll in front of her. Even after a year she still felt sick as the clock ticked down. Introductory music filled the studio, raising the levels of drama and expectation. She shuffled the sheets of paper in front of her, tapping them into a neat, square shape.

  The move from newspapers to television had been a huge career leap and a considerable gamble but Max Coburn convinced her that she was ready for the challenge. Trisha possessed the full package he’d said: blonde hair and blue eyed, a face for television and a voice for radio. She would forgive him the sexist line. Yes, the enigmatic media mogul and owner of The Globe had been true and steadfast in his support, something which was remarkable under the circumstances. After her husband’s sacking, Coburn insisted she revert to her maiden name and reluctantly she agreed. She quickly built a reputation as a tough and fearless interrogator. She eschewed the stern face set permanently for an argument and the tendency to look down one’s nose in barely disguised contempt, mannerisms which had become the default position for other more vaunted broadcasters. Instead, she combined calm courtesy and genuine respect with a fervent and remorseless desire to get at the truth. Many politicians had fallen for the former, only to be clinically undone by the latter.

  The music faded. Fingers counted… five… four… three… two … one. The camera light snapped on.

  “Good morning and welcome to Metropolitan News. I’m Trisha Hunt and here are today’s headlines.”

  Film of the returning officer shaking Tom Catchpole’s hand appeared on the screen. The victorious beaming candidate took the congratulations of each of his opponents in turn. Trisha began the day’s lead story,

  “Today the opposition is celebrating the victory of Tom Catchpole in the Battersby by-election.”

  She paused. Catchpole and a host of joyous party workers, hands clapping and fists punching the air, spilled out onto the balcony of the town hall. Carefully and insistently, Lucy Hass eased Bill Harris through the crowd to join the victor. He grasped Catchpole’s hand and hoisted it aloft. A huge cheer rose from the supporters gathered in the square.

  Trisha continued, “But the environmental expert, who recently returned from California, held the seat with a much reduced majority, a result which piles yet more pressure on the beleaguered leader of the opposition.”

  *

  The packed Government benches rocked with laughter. Members of Parliament squashed onto the archaic green benches. They squeezed into the aisles and along the steps. The more excitable fell back and forth, waving their order papers accusingly.

  An assured and mocking Prime Minister leant on the despatch box. “Why the Leader of the Opposition doesn’t even command the confidence of his own party.” His arm swept across the sullen and silent ranks opposite. “Look! Look!”

  Further waves of derision rolled across the ranks behind him. From his seat at the back of the chamber Tom Catchpole watched despairingly. He struggled to decide which was worse, the state of his own party or the pathetic spectacle being played out before him. Baying hounds and braying donkeys engaged in this weekly ritual of mutual scorn. Was this government? And was this the way to call it to account? Could it even be called democracy? To him it seemed a betrayal of that noble concept.

  The Prime Minister sneered on, “His questions are scripted, his policy bank empty, his leadership feeble. He is simply weak…” Government MPs joined in as he chanted, “Weak, weak!” He fell back onto the bench, where Cabinet colleagues eagerly patted him on the shoulders, whilst others pointed accusing fingers towards the slumped figure of James Devaney, who, eyes down and expressionless, flicked through his order papers.

  Catchpole sighed. This was the politics of a sixth form debating society. Point scoring nonsense consisting of style over substance designed only to promote the cult of personality rather than the genuine scrutiny of policy. It was totally remote from the trials and tribulations borne by those outside the detached pampered Westminster Village. Couldn’t they see people were utterly bored with it? He jumped up, just as the Speaker’s gaze fell upon him.

  The latter’s voice boomed, “Tom Catchpole.”

  Ironic cheers and prolonged jeers from the benches opposite filled the house. He made no attempt to speak. Instead he waited, arms folded, stern faced and unblinking, slowly winning the silence his demeanour demanded.

  “Thank you, Mr Speaker. The Right Honourable gentleman is no doubt aware of the recent United Nations report on carbon emissions. Would he like to tell us how policy will change in the light of its condemnation of his government’s record?”

  The ensuing din was calmed by the waving arms of the Prime Minister as he rose to answer. “Let me begin by welcoming the Honourable Gentleman to the House, proof indeed that the party opposite is intent, however belatedly, on addressing the green agenda. However, his long absence from this country has obviously left him unaware of the tremendous progress made by my Right Honourable friend, the Secretary of State for the Environment, in relation to UK carbon emissions. May I suggest he is green in more ways than one.”

  Roars of support erupted from the party faithful. Catchpole eased from his seat. “I thank the Right Honourable gentleman for his no doubt sincere good wishes but surely it is he who is green.” He shouted over the orchestrated howls. “For is he not aware that the report states that the United Kingdom hosts one of the five worst cases of carbon pollution in Europe.” A few muted cries now emanated from the rows around him. “And where is this testament to the shameful failure of his government? Why it’s in the Prime Minister’s very own constituency!”

  Opposition benches erupted. Order papers were brandished furiously. Cabinet ministers shook their heads disdainfully. Harry Spenser turned to Dominic Wilson, positioned to his right. “He’s very good, don’t you think?” Wilson feigned a thin smile but said nothing.

  Catchpole sat down, oblivious to the back slapping hands around him. So here he was, playing the same game. Point for point, insult for insult and slur for slur. A necessary means to an end he told himself and of course all within the parliamentary rules. One day he would be different.

  *

  The sight of any party leader, whether the Prime Minister or the head of the Her Majesty’s Opposition, having to work the tea rooms of the Palace of Westminster, usually indicated trouble, invariably for themselves. Devaney found himself all too frequently doing the rounds of each table, shaking hands, engaging in forced banter and smiling, always smiling. Normally he would be the one to cut short the conversation and swiftly move on, but lately and today especially, he had noted the recipients of his largesse being less keen to engage with him. The limp handshakes, the stilted conversation and the eagerness to break eye contact all spoke of the increasing unrest and dissatisfaction with his leadership.

  The Prime Minister had got the better of him again. Catchpole had been the hero of the hour, turning the tables and giving the troops something to cheer about. Indeed, when the debutant had come down for drinks, MPs had sprung to their feet and applauded. He and Carlton, with broad grins and false bonhomie, had stomached as much as they could, before slipping from the crowded room to seek solace over a brandy in his office situated directly under the tower of Big Ben.

  “Well, that could hardly have gone worse.” Devaney groaned as he sank into a high backed, studded leather chair. “Every man jack of them wants me out. You can see it in their eyes.”

  Carlton shuffled in his seat, his anger evident from his bulging eyes, flushed cheeks and inability to soften a broad Lancastrian accent. “Ungrateful buggers the lot of them.”

  “They must be patient, Paddy. A new leader would be in exactly the same position. It’s too early to be a
nnouncing a raft of new policies. It would open us up to attacks from all sides. In time maybe, but not yet.”

  “Have they forgotten what you’ve done for them?

  “Apparently so.”

  “Stepping into the breach like you did, saving the party. Who else could have done it? Who else wanted it? No one!

  “That particular picture appears to have changed.”

  “Yes, thanks to the three bloody musketeers!” He threw brandy down his throat. “I’m telling you now. If any of them were to succeed, they’d blow a permanent hole in this party’s chances of ever governing again.”

  “You have to admit Caroline’s good.” Devaney eased across to refill his friend’s glass.

  “She’d be a disaster and you know it. I realise she’s something of a protégé of yours but come on. She’s a follower not a leader.”

  “Don’t underestimate her. She’s toughening up. She’s got steel and she has support on the backbenches. Perhaps it’s time the party chose a woman.”

  “The other lot did and looked what happened.”

  “Wilson’s up and coming too. He’s made quite an impact in Environment and now he’s got Catchpole on board.”

  “Single issue politics never won anything. It appeals to the young, the idealistic and the downright self-righteous.”

  “I’ve given the two of them leeway to put forward a radical brief. It should keep the wolves at bay,” said Devaney.

  “It won’t. Right now folk are struggling to survive. This green stuff’s got nothing to do with real life. It’ll be here today, gone tomorrow.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure.”

  “Anyway, if the party forced a change, I’d rather McKenzie had a go,” Carlton suggested. “At least he’d take us back to our traditions, the ideas the movement used to stand for.”

  “Would they be the very same ideas that saw us unelectable for the best part of a generation. You of all people have been around long enough to know that’s not an option.”

  “There’s many who’d say things were a hell of a lot better then. One earner kept a household, education was free, energy dirt cheap. And I tell you this. People felt they belonged, were part of a community.”

  “Sadly, that’s not how it’s remembered today. More like endless strikes, rubbish piled high in the streets and bodies lying unburied in morgues.”

  “That’s down to the Press.”

  “Whatever. It’s the perceived reality.”

  “Well it’s a disgrace. People forget what a force for good the State has been. I mean, you tell me one thing in the last hundred years that’s been to the benefit of everyone, that’s not been pushed through by the State.”

  “You know I can’t.”

  “Public health, old age pensions, the NHS.”

  “You’ve forgotten the minimum wage,” Devaney sighed. He heard it all before, so many times.

  “What about the very organisations which lobbied for them? They’ve been deliberately and systematically undermined.”

  “I take it you mean the Trade Unions?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Far left hotheads like McKenzie didn’t help.”

  “And nor did bad management.”

  “You can’t keep fighting the old battles in the same old way. Times have changed. We need to move on.”

  There was a firm knock on the door.

  “That will be our dear Miss Hass. Come in,” Devaney called out.

  Lucy Hass peered around the door before stepping in and closing it quietly.

  “Well, what have you got for us, lass?” Carlton demanded.

  She grimaced. “Not good news I’m afraid. Radio 5 scored it clearly for the PM. The Beeb and ITN have gone with the ‘weak, weak, weak’ rant. Twitter feeds are largely negative.”

  “Calling for my head no doubt?” Devaney asked.

  She shrugged. ”There is one positive. I’m told Channel Four are leading with Tom Catchpole’s attack on the PM. Calling it a powerful and eye catching parliamentary performance. Claiming he’s one to watch.”

  Carlton interrupted. “You’ve spent a lot of time with him. What do you think? Are they right?”

  “He’s popular in the party. Certain people are desperately trying to cultivate him.”

  “No prizes for guessing who they are.”

  It was Devaney’s turn to interrupt. The young woman had to be protected from Paddy’s loose tongue. “Thank you, Lucy, that’s all for now. We must get on.”

  He sprung up, walked to the door and held it open, his hand ushering her politely but insistently through the door. He closed it and fell back against its oak panels. “What on earth do I do, Paddy?” Devaney pleaded.

  “You say McKenzie’s not an option. Ok, fine. But if it comes down to a straight choice between Bruce and Wilson, I’m afraid we’re screwed.

  “What if they’re right? What if it is time to step down?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “I’m tired, Paddy.”

  “It’s time to fight. Do whatever it takes.” Carlton glanced towards the door through which Lucy Hass had just left. He leant forward in his chair, his voice low and earnest. “You trust me, don’t you Jim?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “We need to buy ourselves time. Allow things to settle down.”

  “How?” Devaney asked.

  “Sit back. Do nothing. Leave it all to me.”

  Chapter Five

  A single corner lamp cast comforting rays across a sleeping patient’s bed. A neatly folded robe rested on a white chair, with a pristine pair of slippers tucked together underneath. Angel slept but not with the deep, long sleep of the young and guilt free. Her eyes were closed, yet her body thrashed from side to side, hands gripping shoulders, clenched fingers digging deep into skin. She froze. Her eyes burst open. They focussed in terror at the shadowy ceiling above. A long, lone wail rose from the depths of her lungs, gaining in intensity until it shook the very walls of the hospital room.

  *

  As autumn took hold, the riverside quay became less and less populated. The tourist traffic largely disappeared and many river dwellers chose to transfer to distant towns and cities. The four or five narrow boats nestling on the far bank were all but obscured by the dark blanket of heavy cloud that rolled over the star strewn sky. A lamp shone from a round window in one of the vessels which, even in the gloom, was evidently in need of urgent renovation. As if in apology to its more illustrious companions it was detached from the group, being moored a little further along the river.

  The barge was small and compact in length, being a mere thirty five feet of peeling paint and rotting wood. The tiny stern deck allowed room for the helmsman to tend the tiller and no more. But then Joe Start had no intention of receiving or welcoming guests. The tatty cabin doors swung open to reveal steps down to a compact living space, comprising a drape covered sofa and a single upright chair. The one and only concession to modernity was a desk top computer, whose monitor rose up from the detritus littering the surface of a long narrow table fixed to the wall. A perfunctory kitchen containing a sink and a two ring hob abutted a partition wall. A door opened into a shower and toilet which in turn led to sleeping quarters, where a double bed was wedged into the bow of the boat. When Start had purchased the boat, old lags had been quick to pour scorn on its size and its decrepit condition, jokingly warning against setting sail for fear of certain sinking. But none of that bothered him. It was going nowhere and nor was he.

  Down in the cabin, Start struggled to pour the last dregs from a whisky bottle into a glass. He slammed the empty bottle down, before angrily swiping it off the table and onto the floor. That photograph had played on his mind. He couldn’t shift the image of the two of them, standing side by side, smiling. Trisha had been so quick to change her name. Remove any link, any association with him. She seemed too close to Coburn. There had to be more to it, something she hadn’t said, things she might know or have seen but, for some re
ason, was holding back. He would ring her, as he had rung her so many times before. This time she would tell him.

  He gripped his mobile. His shaking finger laboriously scrolled down, before stabbing at a number. The phone rang.

  “Hello. Trisha Hunt.”

  Start’s mouth opened but suddenly he could not speak. He pictured her clearly. Not as she was now, but as the young mid-twenties rookie who had joined the paper shortly after him. He’d always vowed never to mix business with pleasure but his attraction for her was immediate and overpowering. More surprising was the fact that it was mutual. There was no denying that she was better educated, more sophisticated and worldly than him but she seemed to thrive on his drive, determination and remorseless will to succeed. He knew he would need all of those qualities, forged in a tough working class upbringing, to make his way to the top of a profession, which, at this level, was invariably the preserve of people from more privileged backgrounds. Ironically, with the debasing of the Press through the growth of tabloid journalism, it was he who prospered, he who proved more suited to the new trend than her.

  Her puzzled voice echoed down the phone. “Hello.” She became irritated. “Look, who is this?”

  Start murmured, “I saw the paper.”

  “Joe?”

  He sensed affection, still there in that one word. Sorrow too perhaps? Even regret?

  “What is it this time?” she sighed.

  “I saw you… arm in arm with him!”

  Her voice hardened. “And there’s me thinking you’d rung to congratulate me.”

  “That bastard screwed me over.”

  “So you keep saying.”

  “He must have told you something.”

  “How many times do we have to go through this?

  “I have to know.”

  “Listen. For the last time, you messed up. Coburn sacked you. End of.”

  “There’s more to it than that. There has to be.”