Whistleblower

by Terry Morgan

CHAPTER 46

  Jim ignored the three plastic bags of new clothes on the bed next to him. Instead, he retrieved an old address book from his duffel bag and set about checking the new pay-as-you-go mobile phone. Taking a deep breath he phoned the number of his old house in Wiltshire - Margaret - but the number was no longer available.

  Another deep breath and he tried the next number - that of Douglas Creighton, his one-time, so-called, constituency party chairman. The ‘phone was answered by a man whose voice he did not recognise. "Good afternoon. I am sorry to trouble you but I am trying to locate Mr Douglas Creighton."

  "Oh yes - Doug. He owns this house - we rent it from him. His wife died a few years ago. He moved away and rents it out. Do you want his mobile?"

  Jim then called the mobile. It was answered by a man with an elderly voice he hardly recognised, but Douglas was now over seventy. "Douglas?" Jim checked.

  "Yes. Who is it?"

  "It's Jim Smith." There was a silence as though the listener was checking a hearing aid. "Douglas? Are you there?"

  "Yes. My God."

  "It is not God, Douglas. It’s only me, Jim Smith - once an Independent Member of Parliament, a role in which I was grateful for your undying support during some brief but trying times.”

  "My goodness. Where are you? We thought you were dead or living abroad."

  "Did we? Well, I'm alive you'll be pleased to know, and I'm in England. I arrived this morning."

  "Where are you staying? What are you doing? My God, Jim, this is quite a shock hearing your voice after so long."

  "I was hoping we could meet."

  "My goodness, Jim. Ah, yes. Does anyone else know you are here? Why the return?"

  "Time to have another go, Douglas."

  "At what, Jim?"

  "At addressing the same problem that made me go away."

  "It's a long time, Jim. Most people have forgotten."

  "But, I haven't forgotten Douglas. I am here to resurrect things, make a few more people jump around, possibly the same ones. And if a few media people managed to find space to publish a few facts instead of fairy tales perhaps they'll jump even higher."

  "You haven't changed much then, Jim."

  Jim wanted to move quickly on to his reason for calling, but first: "Tell me about Megan. I heard something when I phoned your old number."

  "Megan died about two years ago. We'd been married thirty five years. Cancer. Getting over it a bit now, but it takes the stuffing out of one."

  "I'm sorry, Douglas. I have fond memories of Megan."

  "Thank you..... and what about your private plans?"

  Jim saw through it. Private plans meant Margaret. "Private plans are private plans, Douglas. But can you and I meet? Cup of coffee? Beer?"

  "Yes, I suppose. Why not, I suppose. When?"

  "Tomorrow afternoon. It’s rather short notice for which I apologise, but I'm in a hurry - as ever, you might say. Can you get to London?"

  "Yes, I suppose. By train. Goodness me. Where?"

  "Let's not make it too dramatic, Douglas. I know you used to frequent the Ritz from time to time but their strict dress criteria means I may not be allowed in. How about the Cumberland Hotel, Marble Arch as I wouldn't even need to wear a tie. Say about three? Tea? Coffee? Beer? Gin and tonic? But please, Douglas, this is between you and me at present. It's strictly confidential."

  Jim lay back on the big, soft bed, reflecting on Douglas and his irritating habit of saying ‘My God' and 'I suppose' at every opportunity. It was a habit the man had dragged around for decades, yet no-one seemed to have told him how annoying it was. "Wasted opportunity, mother. If that was me they'd have found some cartoons and jokes there."

  Beside him on the bed lay the bags of new clothes. Two new suits off the peg, one dark grey and one navy blue, three white shirts, two ties, three pairs of navy socks, a pair of black lace-up shoes and a plastic pack of underwear - all Tom's choice, like a caring and thoughtful wife. He stood and held the suit against his chest, brushed a hand through his hair and beard. Tom was right. He should probably shave and have a haircut. But, no, they either saw him as he was or not at all. Wearing a suit and, perhaps, a tie was as far as he was prepared to go, but only if necessary.

  He tried on one of the shirts, the underwear and socks and finally the trouser half of one of the suits, tried to remember how to tie a knot in the tie but gave up. Finally, he bit off a few sales labels with his teeth, pulled on the new shoes, tied his hair back with an elastic band and looked at himself in the full-length mirror.

  "Hah! Lek! Sawadee Kap! Recognise me? It's Jim. How's the business?"

  The clothes felt heavy, cumbersome, restrictive and itchy and he knew the shoes would cause trouble. He took them off, sat on the bed cross-legged and made the third phone call. Jonathan had been expecting the call for most of the day.

  Meeting fixed for Saturday, Jim pulled the new shoes back on, tied them loosely and walked painfully down to the bar to find Tom with an opinion.

  "Well, I suppose we’re part way there, Jim, but frankly I prefer you in your shorts and sandals. Ah well. Never mind. It's alright. It'll help to serve a purpose so it will."