Philian Gregory

by Simon J. Stephens

  Perhaps it had been the timing, or perhaps it was his celebrity popularity, either way, he touched a nerve with the younger generation and they rallied around him as their champion. They understood the notion that they had been hobbled by the cancellation of free university education. They lived their lives under the shadow of debts that only seemed to grow larger in the incubator of punitive interest rates. They felt in their hearts that they were being repressed and held-back, despite having more opportunities than ever to speak out. And they liked the notion that they were being disrespected. They weren’t a faultless generation. They certainly preferred to focus more on rights than responsibilities and didn’t like the idea of being told what to do. But, having grown up being told to respect their elders, they were now justified in many ways in demanding a little of that respect back and, indeed, in questioning how much respect their elders were due.

  They were the ones who seemed to enjoy a politically protected status; woe betide the party that lost the pensioner vote! They continued to receive more and more and pay less and less back. That had been where The New Progressives had had their beginning. It had been a simple comment from Thwaite along the lines of wondering why wealthy pensioners received universal benefits whilst those starting out in life were unable to find affordable accommodation. It snowballed from there.

  The arguments weren’t new. Nor were they radically far from the mainstream. What made The New Progressives a powerful force was the time in which they existed and the tensions that underlay the British economy. Thwaite was no leader. At least, not in his own eyes. He took on that mantle as an accidental function of his fame, his popularity and, most importantly, the void which existed and which cried out for someone to stand as a token of hope. There remained no formal structure to The New Progressives and they remained nothing more than an affiliation of like-minded people, but its voice was getting stronger. And its supporters were becoming more diverse. The young had been the first to stir things up, driven by the enthusiastic radicalism of youth, as much as anything else. That was the first phase of its development. What was catching everyone out now was that age no longer seemed to define those who came in line behind the movement, nor did social class or economic status. It had become a movement of general discontent; a rallying point for some form of new settlement to even the balance and make society a fairer place. If that had been all, Charlie Thwaite wouldn’t have been too concerned. It was the rise in activism that confused him.

  He knew better than anyone else that the Prime Minister’s comments had not been without foundation. There were groups who claimed to operate under the banner of his movement whose proposed solutions scared him. His call for voluntary euthanasia had been twisted into a sickening call for the ‘unviable’ disabled to be terminated at birth. His suggestions that universal pensioner benefits be means tested had been hijacked by those who called for increased taxes on the elderly and the withdrawal of free health treatment in their declining years.

  And his proposal that it simply be accepted that God was dead at the hands of the evolutionists had been twisted into a call for the judicial system to be overhauled to allow true freedom of action as the fittest fought for survival. That had never been the intention. But then, he was beginning to understand now that he had, albeit accidently, created something that had taken on a life of its own.

  “Give me some help here.”, he asked the team who were assembled in that Bayswater flat. They were the inner-circle of The New Progressives, or at least, the inner-circle of those who were just about retaining a hold on the heart of the movement.

  “I think you’re being ungrateful.”, Vince Alison, social media guru and popular blogger, told him, “Just because you think it’s becoming more than you want it to be, doesn’t mean that it’s becoming something it shouldn’t be. Loads of politicians and parties and other movements would kill to get the coverage and support we’re getting. You want help? I say go with it. We’re doing something important here. We’re changing the old order. This is a twenty-first century revolution.”

  “Provided,”, Tim Jackson, lecturer in Evolutionary Psychology at a prominent Russell Group university, began, in the softly spoken tones that made his lectures so appealing to his students, “we don’t let things get out of control. I’m with you, Vince, on the need for the movement. Where I disagree, is on the speed. For something to evolve, it needs to do so in stages. Too much too soon and fear will destroy enthusiasm. That’s where we are now. We have to tone things back. We need to consolidate, define our short-term goals, deliver those and move onto the next. Without such discipline, and this is my big concern, it becomes an ‘anything goes’ scenario and The New Progressives die out with their only legacy being the actions of the radicals. You need to talk to ‘Forward Action’. And you need to do so now.”

  Forward Action were the umbrella group that had attached themselves to The New Progressives as its unofficial enforcers. It was this group that the Prime Minister was most afraid of. They were only just now becoming known outside of The New Progressive movement and what was being discovered about them was not good. They had set themselves up as the ones who would do whatever was necessary to force change. They would lead the riots, occupy parliament and, most disturbingly, do to the helpless what others were afraid to do.

  “You’re not serious?”, Thwaite replied, “Haven’t we just put out a message that distances us from them. Now, you suggest we invite them in? No way.”

  “The alternative’s worse.”, Jackson explained, “Truth is, they’re not going away. If we keep them close to us, we can disarm them. If we reject them, they’ll do what they want to do anyway. And they’ll put the blame on us. It’s zero-win if we go that route. We have to get them on-board.”

  “But they’re terrorists!”

  “If you want to call them that, fine. But you need to understand that they’re working under the banner of your beliefs. If they’re interpreting it wrong, you need to be close enough to them to tell them that. If they’re preparing terrorist acts, you can be there to report them before they go ahead. And, you have to remember that terrorism is a loosely defined concept. You bomb the innocent, that’s terrorism. You execute convicted murderers in a controlled and open manner, that may be terrorism, but it can also be defined as affirmative action. You may not like their methods, but the end-game is the same as yours.”

  “You make it sound so inhuman.”, Thwaite sat down and lit a cigarette, “That’s not how I see it. In fact, it’s all about trying to maximise human benefits across the board. I don’t know what we are anymore. Really, I think this whole thing’s getting out of hand.”

  “But can you finish it off?”, the fourth person in the room, Thwaite’s long-term partner, Jane Barratt, spoke for the first time, “If you wanted to, that is? The ball’s rolling now. If you step away, it will continue to move. You need to decide. To be the spearhead, leading it where we want it to go, or to take the risk of someone else driving it forward. You do that, I can assure you that whoever that other person is will not be as compassionate or well-meaning as you. We can’t let this movement be hijacked.”

  “I think we can prevent that.”, Vince Alison interjected, “Provided we remember two things.”

  “Go on.”

  “Firstly, we need to remember what The New Progressives are. And what we’re not. What we are is a repository of radical thinking. A portal for ideas to be muted and frustrations eased. Those who don’t have a voice can speak to us and their words become a part of the whole. It empowers them and accepts them. And, what we’re not is a political party. This isn’t about bringing about a forced revolution. The electorate and the politicians remain the true activists. So long as we stay that one step detached, we can remain the movement of choice.”

  “Okay,”, Thwaite replied after a moment’s thought, “I can accept that. Your other point?”

  “Is that we have the balance of power just
now. Whatever way we choose to define ourselves, it is The New Progressives who have the influence across all the social media channels. We can build on that to secure our position. You don’t quite get the whole blogging and tweeting thing, I know. But I do and our supporters do. We have the resources to hold that space just now, which means that we can maintain control of the movement. Trust me, with my team, hijack isn’t going to happen.”

  “Anyone else?”, Thwaite asked.

  “I agree with Vince.”, Jane held her boyfriend’s hand as she spoke, “We can maintain control of this thing. And we have a duty to.”

  “You know where I stand.”, Jackson replied, “I think we have to go with Vince’s assertion that we can hold this thing in check, but we have to draw any rebel groups into the fold as soon as possible. Just now, things are as they always have been. Democracy works, just about, and the system can accommodate fairly radical changes. But, if we need to move to the next step, the inclusion of a more active element will make us capable of taking action. Forward Action could be a powerful ally, provided we help them understand the framework of morality that we work under. Much as we can’t see it now, we may need them further along the line.”

  “So, do it then.”, Thwaite sighed, “Get in touch with them and arrange a meeting. Vince, you’re right about my understanding of social media. I’ll defer to you on that, but if it’s as powerful a tool as you say it is, we need to keep investing in it. Put together a package of requests for me and I’ll see what I can do. If we’re going to secure a foothold, we may as well make it as strong as possible. And Jane, thanks as always. Lunch?”

  The couple left their friends to the tasks they’d been allotted and walked out into the bright sunshine that reflected off the numerous glass-fronted buildings that had begun to encircle their neighbourhood. They would try and have as civilised a lunch as possible, although they knew that it would be disturbed numerous times by well-wishers wanting to take selfies with Thwaite or simply shake his hand. It had been the part of celebrity that had got him down prior to his retirement. He hadn’t thought that he’d miss it as much as he did. Back in the public eye, the attention was even greater now, and it was a welcome period of validation for him although he knew it would cloy shortly. It was the price of being well-known. A price worth paying for the other benefits that celebrity brought you. Not least of which was the opportunity to influence a nation and snatch it from the brink of a divisive revolution. All in all, he felt better about what was happening with The New Progressives, even if he wasn’t sure he understood any more about how it had all come about.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  In one of those coincidental meetings that happen a million times a day and in a million different places, Bob Dexter held the restaurant door open for Charlie Thwaite and his partner, vaguely recognising them as they thanked him. In a city the size of London, it was strange how often such loose connections happened. Then again, for all its complexity, hustle and bustle and heads-down madness, London wasn’t as big as its dominant presence seemed at first to claim.

  Dexter had eaten early, having just despatched the parcel of evidence that he’d retrieved to his friends. It was three weeks since they’d last met and he had heard from them only sporadically. The list of names and contacts that he’d been asked to look into had kept him busy for much of that time. As had the club that he was soon to get a lot closer to. The same mysterious club that they’d been led to via carelessly discarded old membership cards. It was called ‘The Gentleman’s Haven’, although time and progress had reduced that to ‘The Haven’ and allowed for the admission of those of any gender, or indeed, none. Getting close to it had been a challenge. It only existed to the outside world in the most cursory and necessary way. Its phone number was registered but not listed, tax and other government documents indicated that it paid what it was required by law to pay, and there was even a brass plate attached to its polished ebony doors. That plaque was nothing more than a gothic H. Presumably, those who needed to find it didn’t need any more confirmation that they were at the right place.

  Although the club had a bold but discrete presence on one of the small Dickensian thoroughfares that ran off the Strand, few knew of its existence and even fewer gave it any thought as they passed its frontage. A plain steel box to the side of the front door told visitors and delivery drivers to use the rear entrance. Within that box, a card reader with a keypad waited for members to swipe their way in. That much Bob Dexter knew, having parked his motorhome in a spot that gave him a view of the door and having watched the place for a few hours. There were only a handful of visitors, but they each followed the same protocol: the steel box was opened, their card swiped, a PIN number was entered and then they pushed the door open and were in. None seemed furtive or acted suspiciously. It was all very above-board. Dexter couldn’t quite see a way in. Unless he were to revert to type and make a direct approach.

  He decided to do that when all other options failed to form in his mind. He had plenty of time to think about the best way to get into the club as he travelled to numerous places that skirted the M25 motorway. With traffic delaying him and frustrating him, he parked his home in a long-stay car park and chose instead to live a little of his old life. Train links were as good as they’d ever be in the South East, provided you timed your journeys to avoid the busiest periods. They proved to be the most efficient way of travel and they had the added bonus that he could step away from his nomadic existence and dip into the mainstream world once more. Hotels welcomed him and the black credit card that he funded under his alter ego and the luxurious pleasures that he’d once known drew him back into their arms. He carried on pursuing the project for Gregory and Carrington, but his enthusiasm waned just a little as he considered what he had given up to take on this mission.

  Technically, the two men on a boat had snatched him from danger. He owed them for that. At first, the motorhome had been fun. It offered him freedom and an easy life with little to stress him out. But it wasn’t all so simple. Two nagging concerns simply refused to go away. Firstly, he could never reach the one-hundred percent commitment to Carrington’s mission that Philian Gregory could. Yes, he understood the motivation and yes, if it prevented further suffering then it was valid. And yet, it all seemed a little too vague. Was there really a need to copy multiple computer hard-drives to seek evidence for a ‘plot’ that might prove to be non-existent? Were there really mysterious forces of evil at work behind the scenes? Or, was this all a vanity and an obsession that had to end? Worse still, would the mysterious conspiracy that they discovered be merely a construct of their actions? He still didn’t know.

  The second concern that he had was altogether more selfish. He’d enjoyed being a wealthy businessman and all the trappings that came with the role. He liked to be in the company of others and he liked the challenge of helping money make more money. Gregory and Carrington were different. They had resigned themselves to their off-the-grid life and it satisfied them. The more Dexter tasted the comforts of luxury, the more he missed them, and the closer he got to making the decision that he almost knew to be inevitable.

  Not that there weren’t some highly satisfying moments in the clandestine work that filled his days and some of his nights. Copying the computer hard-drives was the simple part. Especially when his friends had tipped him off to the type of computer that he was looking for. It was a simple black box, one of millions produced by a mainstream brand and, as such, anonymous in its presence. That all of the contacts Gregory and Carrington were pursuing used the same equipment and kept it disconnected from the internet, was seen by them as proof that they were onto something. Dexter saw the connection but was inclined to see it as a coincidence. A strange one, maybe, but not the solid evidence of collusion that the others thought it represented.

  The copying of drives became routine. Access to the properties that he needed to get into was as straightforward as his friends had found, although
he preferred to go along the disguise route. It made the challenges fun. Unoccupied and unalarmed properties were easy pickings. Those that required a little more imagination satisfied so much more. The Bishop had helped an elderly gentleman who had fallen off his bike and had thus opened up his private life to Dexter’s scrutiny because of his Good Samaritan act. Not only had his host invited him in to rest and have a cup of tea, he had also pulled out a change of clothes for him and run him a bath. Whilst that was being done, Dexter copied the drive and photographed the Bishop’s study.

  He’d started to do that more often, thinking that the photographs may provide that little bit more evidence than that which was on the computers. The Bishop wasn’t a major bishop by any means, which meant that his ‘palace’ was nothing more than a large Victorian mansion and, most importantly, that it was unstaffed. He was a nice old boy. The tea he made was perfectly presented, accompanied as it was by a slice of homemade cake. The bath would have been luxurious but Dexter thought it all a little too intimate and excused himself apologetically even though it had been run.

  Carlos Gabon had much higher security around him. He worked in the City, lived in a new-build penthouse overlooking the Thames and gave little else away about his life. Playing the part and remembering his own playboy days, Dexter tracked Gabon to his Friday night local and matched him with boisterous arrogance as he blew a sum greater than the average annual wage on bottles that tasted no better than a supermarket’s offering. He knew what made Gabon tick. He was a bloke, so sex was a no-brainer, but of more value to the current situation, he was greedy. Greedy enough to use his company’s expense account to fund his partying. As they succumbed to the alcohol, the plan began to become a reality.

  Dexter let drop his role in finance. He was dressed in a bespoke suit, the sort of touch that only a few would notice, and he was carrying a lot more weight than usual, all of it made from latex and rubber prosthetics. The look gave him enough of an air of authority to command respect, but it was coupled with a tragic loneliness that stirred up a latent contempt in Gabon’s arrogant mind. Once settled into the small enclave that Gabon commanded, he offered hints about a big deal soon to be completed. Carrington had given him enough data to sound plausible and the reality was, that this was one of his brilliant insights that would have made him a fortune had he the resources to play the gambit.