The Friends of Harry Perkins

by Chris Mullin

  ‘I think he is,’ said Thompson. ‘My colleague and I have just watched him park his car, walk down the garden path and let himself in the front door. This is Mr Carter, by the way. He’s a lawyer.’

  They found Albert in the kitchen, scoffing his dinner. ‘No hurry,’ said Thompson. ‘We’ve got all evening.’ It took nearly two hours, with interruptions, to tap the statement into Thompson’s laptop. Albert’s memory lapsed at convenient points. Several times they had to go back over old ground as Albert’s memory improved. He had difficulty with names and dates, but eventually a coherent narrative emerged. Thompson opened his wheelie bag and took out an Epsom printer, printing out first a draft and then two top copies. Reluctantly Albert signed and Carter witnessed. ‘What happens next?’ asked Albert as he showed them to the door. ‘Will it be in the papers?’

  ‘I imagine it might.’

  SEVEN

  One night, at about two in the morning, Catherine appeared in Fred and Elizabeth’s bedroom. Until now she had always been a good sleeper.

  ‘What is it, my sunshine?’

  ‘Daddy, my head hurts.’ She was holding a hand to her forehead.

  ‘Here, let me give it a kiss . . . Is that better?’

  He stroked her blond hair. ‘Now go back to bed and sleep tight.’

  The little nugget disappeared, but within the hour she was back, still rubbing her forehead, tears welling. Elizabeth gave her an aspirin and she went back to bed, but at breakfast she was still complaining of a sore head.

  * * *

  ‘We need a strategy,’ said Steeples, when Fred produced the second affidavit. ‘You’ve got to come across as acting responsibly, rather than some left-wing firebrand. As it happens, we’re in luck, there’s a debate on migration coming up the week after next. Flather’s bound to want to contribute. I suggest we pay a visit to the chief whip and tell him what’s afoot. You’ll also need to inform our front bench team. On the day, but not before, we might tip off a couple of journalists – the Mail and the Guardian, I suggest. Mail readers are his core supporters, they’ll roast him.’ He licked his lips in anticipation.

  ‘One other thing. You need to give Flather notice that you’ll be mentioning his name. No need to go into detail, just enough to ensure his presence. Drop him a note, just before the debate.’

  * * *

  The day came. Flather was in his usual seat, to the left of the Treasury bench, two rows back, smug, arrogant, righteous, surrounded by smirking acolytes, no idea of what was about to hit him. Thompson took a seat almost exactly opposite. Jock Steeples, Mrs Cook and Stephen Carter were lined up behind him. The debate was on a government motion so the chamber soon filled. The front bench teams were in their place, the opposition chief whip, glancing back at Thompson, giving him a friendly nod.

  Thompson’s note, marked ‘personal and urgent’ was delivered by messenger, several minutes into the home secretary’s speech. He watched, trembling with anticipation, as it passed along the row. To Thompson’s dismay, Flather merely glanced at the envelope and tucked it into an inside pocket. After a minute or two, curiosity got the better of him. He reached into his jacket, extracted the envelope, scowled, examined both sides and opened it. He read it once, twice, three times; a frown creased his forehead. He showed it to his neighbours on either side who shrugged. Then he peered around the chamber, trying to identify the author. Eventually Thompson had to be pointed out to him. For a long thirty seconds Flather, jaw clamped tight, lips curved downwards, simply stared. Thompson gave a wan smile and then broke off eye contact.

  The home secretary spoke. Although from the right of her party her tone was moderate, balanced, responsible. Yes, migration was a problem, but the causes were many and complex and, contrary to what some alleged, there were no simple solutions. At the mention of ‘simple solutions’ Flather rose. At first the home secretary ignored him, but as the cries of ‘give way’ grew louder, she eventually sat down.

  A deathly hush came over the House as Flather rose. ‘I am grateful to the home secretary for giving way.’ He paused.

  ‘Get on with it,’ came a lone voice from the other side.

  ‘Is the home secretary aware – indeed, I am sure she is – that many hardworking British citizens are losing faith in the ability of politicians to cope with the rising tide of migrants who are taking their jobs, their houses and harassing our women . . .?’

  From the opposition benches and, sotto voce, from one or two members on the government side, cries of ‘shameful’.

  Flather waited for the noise to subside. ‘Is she also aware that, if the government will not act, then our long-suffering people will?’ He sat down to a bout of vigorous hear-hearing from the acolytes and glum silence from most on the government benches who stared blankly at their order papers.

  ‘Home secretary,’ called the speaker, and she was on her feet again. An elegant, somewhat hard-faced woman with steel in her voice. ‘Forced repatriation is not, and never will be, the policy of this government and the honourable gentleman and his friends should be aware that anyone who incites or engages in violence towards foreign nationals will feel the full weight of the law.’ Her words were drowned by cheers – mostly, it has to be said, from the opposition benches. Flather slouched, smirking, while the little coterie of acolytes seated around him patted his back. He was unbothered by the fact that he had little overt support on his own side. His base lay in blighted council estates, leafy suburbs and on the executive committees of not a few constituency associations.

  After the front bench spokesmen had said their piece, numbers thinned. The home secretary departed and the press gallery emptied of all save agency reporters. To Thompson’s dismay even Flather disappeared, in the direction of the tea room, no doubt to celebrate his triumph with a mug of tea and a piece of fruit cake. He had got his sound bite for the six o’clock news and that was all that mattered.

  An hour passed and then another as the chamber emptied. Media deadlines came and went. Thompson began to despair. ‘Don’t worry, son,’ said Steeples, ‘they’ll all come streaming back when you get up. The whips have put the word around.’

  Eventually, with less than an hour to go before the closing speeches, Thompson was called. The green benches were two thirds empty. ‘Mr Deputy Speaker . . .’ (the speaker had long since departed) ‘we have all witnessed the disgraceful, shameful scenes outside migrants’ hostels in the coastal towns. We are all aware of the recent spate of attacks on migrants and their families. And all responsible politicians and others in positions of leadership will know that they should do nothing to inflame what is already a very delicate situation.’

  As Jock Steeples had predicted, members on all sides, seeing Thompson’s name on the monitors, began to trickle back into the chamber. The shadow home secretary took his seat and before long the home secretary herself was in her place, after which the trickle of members into the chamber became a flood. The press gallery was filling up, too. Steeples and Mrs Cook had been busy.

  ‘The home secretary spoke for all of us . . . Perhaps I should rephrase that, almost all of us,’ he glanced across at the empty seats where Flather and his acolytes had been sitting, ‘when she replied to the honourable member for Surrey South earlier in the debate.’ At the mention of his name Flather, trailed by half a dozen of his followers, miraculously reappeared and took his seat. ‘The House should be aware, however, that the member for Surrey South was not always the opponent of uncontrolled immigration that he affects to be today . . .’ Suddenly Flather was sitting bolt upright.

  ‘Speak slowly,’ Steeples had advised. ‘Make every word count.’ The Commons has a notoriously short attention span, but Thompson had captured the attention of the entire House.

  ‘In a previous incarnation, the honourable gentleman was a haulage contractor, a self-made man . . .’

  ‘Madam Speaker . . .’ (the speaker, too, was back in her seat, and one of the acolytes was on his feet) ‘Madam Speaker, what has this to do with
the motion . . .?’

  ‘I am listening carefully. I am sure the honourable gentleman will stick to the subject on the order paper.’

  ‘Rest assured, Madam Speaker, I will. We are talking about migration, illegal migration.’ Flather had visibly paled. ‘As a haulier, the principal part of the honourable gentleman’s business involved the transport of live cattle to southern Italy—’

  ‘On a point of order, Madam Speaker.’ One of the acolytes was on his feet. ‘What has this got to do with migration?’

  The speaker, too, was growing impatient. ‘I am sure the honourable member is about to make his point.’

  ‘Indeed I am, Madam Speaker. The House should be aware that there was another, darker side to the honourable member’s business activities. He was smuggling illegal migrants into the UK.’

  Total, stunned, silence.

  And then, ‘Madam Speaker, this is outrageous.’ Flather was on his feet, flailing. ‘The honourable gentleman has made a very grave accusation. I hope he has proof of what he is alleging.’

  ‘I do indeed, Madam Speaker.’ Thompson brandished his statements. ‘These are copies of affidavits sworn by two former employees of the honourable gentleman . . .’ Thompson struggled to make himself heard above the uproar ‘. . . which I will make available to the appropriate authorities.’ With that he sat down.

  Flather, pale-faced, had slumped in his seat, all the arrogance suddenly knocked out of him. It was left to the acolytes to express indignation on his behalf, bobbing up and down, making bogus points of order to which the speaker gave short shrift. Most of the Tories just sat paralysed.

  * * *

  Flather was not seen again in the House of Commons. His friends melted away, scarcely able to recall that they had ever known him. He did not respond to requests for interviews. Telephones both at home and at his office went unanswered. There were rumours that he had fled abroad. Upon receipt of the affidavits the chairman of the Standards and Privileges Committee announced an inquiry which was swiftly overtaken by the news that the Metropolitan Police were launching a criminal investigation. Two days later the government chief whip put out a terse statement announcing that Flather was resigning his seat with immediate effect.

  * * *

  Catherine’s headaches grew worse. Elizabeth took her to the doctor who referred her to the hospital for a scan. The news was not good. They were called to a meeting with the oncologist. He did not beat about the bush. ‘I am afraid Catherine has a tumour. She will need treatment, urgently.’

  Suddenly the world stood still. They could no longer hear the bustle in the corridor outside, the banging of trolleys, the sound of traffic. Besides this everything else was trivial.

  ‘What are her chances?’ whispered Elizabeth

  ‘Depends whether or not it is malignant. Most tumours are benign, in which case her chances are good.’

  ‘And if it is not benign?’

  ‘About fifty-fifty.’

  EIGHT

  ‘Congratulations, my boy, you are the hero of the hour,’ said Jock Steeples when the Friends assembled for dinner a few days after the event. Otto the Patron was beside himself with joy. ‘Wunderbar,’ he said, his rugged face illuminated by a broad smile. ‘Bloody, effing wunderbar.’ A bottle of Pol Roger appeared. ‘On the house,’ he said, raising a glass to Thompson. He then produced a camera and insisted on their being photographed together. ‘I shall want you to sign this. You’ve earned a place on my wall of fame.’

  ‘If I were you,’ advised Steeples when Otto had disappeared, ‘I’d say as little as possible. There will be a trial and you may be called upon to give evidence.’

  ‘And don’t let it go to your head,’ whispered Mrs Cook. ‘An inflated ego can be crippling in our line of business.’

  ‘No chance,’ replied Thompson mysteriously, ‘I have something much more important to worry about.’

  ‘Such as?’ said Mrs Cook, but he didn’t elaborate and she didn’t press him.

  * * *

  Congratulations flowed in. In the House Thompson couldn’t walk five paces without colleagues slapping him on the back. Handwritten notes marked ‘personal and private’ appeared on the letter board, many from Tory members glad to see the back of Flather. ‘Every democracy needs people like you,’ read one. ‘A great public service,’ said another. Letters and postcards arrived by the sack load, emails by the thousand. Many bore messages which began, ‘I do not share your politics but . . .’ Strangers approached him in the street and on the train. He was the subject of laudatory profiles in the Sunday newspapers. As Steeples advised, however, Thompson kept his head down, affecting an air of modesty. Indeed, some quietly remarked that, for a man who had just scored a great triumph, he looked positively miserable. But then, of course, he knew something they didn’t. Not an hour passed without his thinking of Catherine. He tried to tell himself that it would be all right. Tragedies were for other people, not for lucky lives like his. But deep down he feared the worst.

  * * *

  A message from the leader’s office. Mrs Jones would like a word. Margaret Jones was an elegant woman in her late forties. Her husband was something in the City, so money wasn’t a problem. She had risen by the classic route: St Hugh’s College, Oxford, a year at Harvard, ministerial adviser, MP – the product of an all-woman shortlist while still in her late twenties. A junior member of Harry Perkins’ government, she was one of the few bright stars of the long years of opposition which followed. The first female to be elected Labour leader in her own right. No one doubted her ability, or that behind that undoubted charm there was a steely resolve, but somehow it did not make up for the lack of passion. Her views were the product of diligent study rather than life experience, and it showed. Polls suggested that the public had yet to warm to her.

  ‘A long time since our paths last crossed.’ She shook his hand warmly.

  Indeed. In those days Thompson had been a mover and shaker at the heart of government and she the lowest form of ministerial life, struggling to make a name for herself. How times change.

  ‘This must all seem a bit of a let-down to you,’ she said. ‘After all, you’ve been at the heart of power. None of us have.’

  ‘Not at all,’ he said, but he knew she was right. It was unlikely that he would ever again taste power, at least nothing like what he had enjoyed in those two glorious years with Harry.

  She motioned him to an armchair. ‘Well, you’ve certainly got off to a good start. Not many newcomers make a splash like you have.’

  ‘Actually, I fear I may have done the Tories a service. Without Flather and his mates, they will be respectable again.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said archly, ‘that point had occurred to me.’

  There was an awkward silence. In truth they didn’t have a lot in common. At length she said, ‘Fred, what would you like to do in this place?’

  ‘I have no desire to be famous. Only useful. I thought perhaps a select committee . . .’

  ‘How about I make you our housing spokesman?’

  ‘Housing? I don’t know the first thing about housing.’

  ‘Oh, you could learn it all up . . .’ That was the thing about clever people: they thought politics could be learned.

  ‘I’m not sure I—’

  ‘Of course you could. Anyway, it’s only for a year or two and then I’ll find you something more up your street – in the foreign affairs team perhaps. Are we agreed, then?’ She awarded him one of her steely smiles. Already she was rising from her seat. Before he knew it he was out in the corridor, wondering what Elizabeth would have to say.

  * * *

  ‘How could you?’ Elizabeth almost screamed, when he broke the news. ‘Don’t you think we’ve got enough on our plate?’ Alone all day with little else to think about, Catherine’s illness was wearing her down. The children were her life.

  Catherine took to calling her tumour Malfoy, after a villain in her Harry Potter books. The name soon caught on. ‘How’s Malfoy
today?’ they would ask each morning and the little nugget would either whisper ‘Malfoy’s bad today’ or later, when the medication took hold, she might remark that Malfoy had disappeared. ‘I don’t know where he’s gone.’

  Very soon there was to be an operation. ‘Will it hurt?’ she asked when they broke the news.

  ‘No, darling. They will put you to sleep for a little while and while you are sleeping they will remove the lump on your brain. After that Malfoy will disappear.’

  ‘But my brain is inside my head. How will they get in there?’

  Hesitation. ‘They will make a tiny hole.’

  ‘A hole?’

  ‘Only a little one. It will soon heal. And when you wake up, you’ll feel much better.’

  He turned away so that she couldn’t see the tears in his eyes.

  * * *

  That night there were reports that a Chinese warship had fired a torpedo across the bows of the USS George W. Bush. Radio Beijing described it as a warning shot.

  NINE

  Catherine’s operation went as well as could be expected. The bad news was that the tumour was malignant, but the surgeon was confident he had removed it all. ‘We caught it early,’ he said. ‘The prognosis is good.’

  ‘Is my brain still there?’ was her first question on regaining consciousness. She had tubes attached to her nose, chest and right arm, plugged into a big machine by her bed, and one arm round Clarence, her favourite teddy bear.

  ‘Yes, my darling.’

  ‘And did they make a hole in my head?’

  ‘Yes, but it’s very small.’

  ‘Can you see it?’

  ‘No, it’s all covered up. It will soon heal.’