Time of Lies Read online

  ‘And will that work?’ Alan demanded.

  ‘Who knows, but it’s a strategy – BG’s strategy is different. Look at what Bob Grant said about hard-working families. He was very clever. The other parties thought he had attacked a sacred cow and rubbed their hands with glee. But Bob out-manoeuvred them. He said what everyone knows but, until him, no-one had said: that ‘hard-working families’ was a gimmick made up by politicians who didn’t know a real hard-working family from a hole in the ground. The more the Future Tories shouted, the more Bob pointed out how many wives they’d had, how many homes they had, which schools their kids went to, how many of them didn’t have proper jobs… What are the polls saying; he’s gone up?’

  Kathy nodded. ‘He has. Including among former Conservative voters.’

  ‘BG are buying the election with money,’ Alan opined. ‘Not advertising, but the Vigilance – which is paying to get youngsters and the unemployed off the streets. Buying votes, even. Where’s the money coming from?’

  ‘Bob’s worth at least £20 million,’ said Zack. ‘A refill, Alan? We’ll sit down in five minutes.’

  Alan shook his head vigorously. ‘I tell you something, BG’s got other money, that’s for certain. I dealt with people who were worth £20 million. Hell, I hoped to become one myself. Now, an ordinary guy looks at someone worth £20 million, and thinks he’s got all that to spend. But the guy with £20 million is thinking, I can’t afford to slip below £17 million, maybe £15 million worst case. BG is spending way beyond what Bob’s got. All those computers, and they pay allowances until you’re twenty-one, and wages after that if you become an organiser. That’s how they blew UKIP out of the water – big money and serious organisation.’

  Alan paused as hailstones rattled the windows. ‘Did you ever think one day Bob was going to be famous?’

  ‘Of course not. No-one in Bermondsey grows up to be famous. I mean, except Michael Barrymore.’

  Kathy got up from the sofa. She had been watching Zack’s mood, listening to his laughter. Most of all she watched how fast he was sinking the red wine – tonight he was going gently. She was happy about that for its own sake and because it hinted that the day’s writing had gone well. That augured well for the surprise she would pitch him after dinner. Why not jump at the chance to play Bob behind closed doors? Why not get paid to take the piss out of his brother? What Patrick wanted most was to shock his civil servants out of sleepwalking into a BG government, if that was the election result. But she knew that she mustn’t misplay it. If Zack thought it was a gig she’d wangled as a favour, based on his resemblance rather than his acting, forget it.

  8

  London, Wednesday 22 April 2020

  The jokes have been coming too easily: on Wednesday morning it’s time for writer’s block. After the storm the sky is grey with patches of blue. High clouds whip past like bank robbers. I wake up with a headache so bad that fixing it will be a codeine job. The gig is Saturday night. I finished yesterday in a good place, but I need to keep going. Friday and Saturday I need to chill out, tie bow-ties and rehearse.

  Normally I leave codeine out unless I’m in a show: today will be an exception. Since mostly I’m not on stage, I call that sensible self-medication. When I am performing, I seriously need not to fuck up, even if it’s discussing the finer points of car insurance with a dog. In my line of work you don’t get to play Rosencrantz, let alone Hamlet, if you can’t talk car insurance with a dog. What’s Hot in St Albans and Harpenden liked my Rosencrantz for three weeks last year.

  I call Troy. For all his faults, surprisingly often he is helpful. I’m hoping it will be that way this morning, and I’m in luck. I jump in an Uber to find the thirty-year-old wearing a polka dot neckerchief in the ‘sun lounge’ of a Kensington hotel. It’s a quarter to eleven in the morning but two large glasses of white Rioja are already on the table (there’s an ‘On me, Zack, on me,’ as I arrive). I know it’s going to appear as a deduction for expenses the minute I have any earnings to deduct the expenses from, but still it’s a nice gesture.

  Allegedly white Rioja never gives Troy a headache, so I explain that he can share mine. Troy skims my script for Saturday, his eyes accelerating towards the last page like a bishop who has stumbled into a tranny bar. I take a discreet, I-don’t-drink-in-the-morning-but-I’m-being-sociable mouthful. ‘Not bad, Zack, not bad. So you’ve decided to play the second half for laughs. Fine, but it can’t all be cock sizes and you need an ending – like in a firework display, some fuck-off thing that says, this is THE END; APPLAUD!’

  ‘Agreed. I’m hoping you can give me some inspiration.’

  ‘Hope away. It’s free.’

  Troy pulls out his smartphone. ‘Example. You thought about doing an estate agents rap?’

  A what?

  ‘So here you go – an online lyrics generator. Put in ‘estate agents’ and get some lyrics for free. Bang. Done it already.’ He hands the phone over, and I scroll down.

  Goin’ for the grips every day ’til the grave

  Neither did real estate but still put you in your place

  Acres separate my estate from neighbors

  So log out and soak your lyrical papers

  I’m letting all my niggas grab a plate

  That’s right I know you don’t do real estate.

  My head swims a bit. I read the lines a few times. ‘I’m not sure that works for me,’ I say uncertainly.

  Troy shrugs and pours himself another glass. ‘It might work for them – they’re twenty-year-olds mostly. And they’ll be off their faces on the white stuff. You could read them Railway Tickets of Tasmania and they’ll crease up.’ He points at my glass. ‘Drink up, if you want the creative juices to flow. I don’t fancy doing all the heavy lifting.’

  Twenty minutes later we’ve cracked it: famous locations from Shakespeare’s plays re-done in estate agent speak. ‘Dunsinane. Unique opportunity to acquire eleventh century hill ramparts with outstanding opportunities for bloodshed and modernisation. Dynamic forest views.’ After scribbling like mad I thank Tony profusely and hurry home to get some new material down while I’m on a roll. A number 14 bus takes me most of the way, followed by a ten-minute walk. The codeine has kicked in, I’m feeling a lot lighter. I stop at the corner where 106 is.

  A fire engine is parked alongside. Its lights are flashing but hoses are being coiled up. The smell of soot and wet sacking is strong but a cartoonist would caption the scene ‘after’, not ‘before’. Mud from a water-logged miniature garden spills into the street. In 106 itself, the glass in the patio doors has shattered but I can’t see any external damage upstairs. Someone has painted in tar-black letters on the end-of-terrace wall ‘BRITISH HOMES NOT EMPTY HOMES.’

  Alan, is he all right? I expect to see the neighbourhood clock on the pavement but he’s not there. I wander into the road and don’t see a car with two people inside turning towards me. The car accelerates but I slip on wet mud and fall backwards towards the pavement. I have time to notice that the sky has turned a clear eggshell blue, like a children’s colouring book, with a smudge of black smoke climbing towards it like Jack’s beanstalk. What I don’t have time to do is get out of the car’s way.

  9

  London, Thursday 23 April 2020

  When I wake up, Kathy is standing beside me holding my hand. I have an intravenous drip in my arm. A tall thin man, clever and in a suit, stands next to her. I assume he’s the surgeon admiring his handiwork.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ Kathy asks. She pops an extra pillow behind my back.

  Damage control reports come in to my brain. The ones from distant territories like the feet take a while. ‘All right,’ I say warily. ‘Light-headed. A bit thirsty.’

  Kathy pours water from the bedside jug. ‘You were so lucky. It was a really vicious blow to the back of your head, and a lot of blood, but that’s all it was. They’ve run tests overnight
and they’ll let you out this afternoon or first thing tomorrow; I’ll come back to take you home.’

  I wait for the surgeon to utter his medical babble, but he just smiles and exudes intelligence. ‘No operation, then?’ I ask.

  Kathy replies no. They had to shave my head to do their examinations; they wanted to be sure they weren’t missing anything which could cause problems later, but it all came up fine.

  She sees that I’m still staring at the man in the suit. ‘This is Patrick Smath,’ says Kathy brightly. ‘My boss at the MOD. He wanted to come by and say hello.’

  ‘Hello Zack,’ he says. ‘Call me Patrick.’ So not a surgeon, just the same cutting mind and upmarket bedside manner. These are not the most auspicious circumstances in which to meet the man who may divert the next year or two of our lives to the other side of the Atlantic.

  ‘Patrick – Zack Parris. I’ve heard a lot about you from Kathy. Although nothing classified, of course.’

  ‘The only thing which would be classified is how much of my job is done by Kathy. With luck I’ll get my knighthood before anybody notices. My car was bringing both of us this way so of course I wanted to pop in. I’m only sorry not to be the bearer of chocolates.’ Kathy has told me many times how Patrick can be graciousness personified, if he wants to be. ‘So you and Bob are brothers.’

  ‘After a fashion.’ I start fingering my scalp. The back of my head is still bandaged. I can’t see the skin – there is no mirror in the room – but it feels bony and bumpy, I can tell it’s going to be prison camp white. ‘I changed my name, and we don’t talk about each other.’

  Kathy takes my hand and puts it back by my side.

  ‘Bob hasn’t mentioned a brother in any of his interviews.’

  ‘It’s mutual, but I’ve given fewer interviews. Bob thinks I’m a waste of space. He thinks all actors are. It seems we’re nearly as bad as bankers.’

  ‘Fascinating,’ says Patrick. ‘Of course, what I would most like to have brought you is an arrest.’

  ‘I’m sure it was an accident,’ I say. ‘I slipped on some mud.’

  Patrick shakes his head. ‘I didn’t mean that, although I’m sure the police have taken the driver’s statement. I meant the petrol bomb into 106. I can promise you we’re onto this like a ton of bricks – police leave cancelled, the works. A group of us in the centre of government, including the Home Secretary, receives daily reports on the investigations. We’re utterly determined to nip this kind of vile attack in the bud.’

  ‘What was it?’

  ‘Very amateur, thank goodness. A plastic bottle with some petrol and a timer. It seems a good part of the petrol evaporated during the night before the timer went off. Having no curtains or carpets in the living room helped. But if the fire service had been delayed, if there had been a stiff breeze up Walsingham Road…’

  ‘Is Alan OK?’ I ask Kathy.

  ‘He’s fine. He was calming the Bangladeshi family in 100 when you turned up. He’s got a bottle of prosecco on ice for us this evening.’

  ‘Good old Alan.’ Fuck, what about the gig? I’m guessing that my head will still be bandaged tomorrow. I return to Patrick. ‘It was BG, I assume?’

  ‘We’re putting all BG and Vigilance organisers in south-west London through the wringer – including the guy who came round doing the survey. But I’ll be honest, it’s mainly deterrence. Unless we get a forensic break we’re unlikely to see an arrest. Putting an extra watch on your street, that sort of thing? We’re certainly doing that.’

  Patrick’s phone bleeps. He grimaces at Kathy. He moves to leave, taking Kathy with him. ‘Bollocks. Will you excuse us? More politicians have escaped from the kindergarten. It’s tempting to say the sooner the election’s over, the better. But we’d better all be careful what we wish for.

  ‘Oh, you might be wondering about the private room.’ Patrick gestures around. I haven’t thought about it, but of course he’s right – it’s not an NHS ward. ‘The MOD will take care of it. It’ll help keep any media away. Your neighbour Alan is catching most of that, and doing well, from what I’ve seen – a statesmanlike example to our masters. If they let you out in time, maybe you’ll join our role-play briefing tomorrow afternoon?’

  Kathy’s shown me how Patrick is a master manipulator, but I can still enjoy a class act when I see it – here’s a private room, come do our role-play.

  They go and I fend off a Filipina nurse who keeps saying, ‘You Prime Minister, you sign book for me’. I text Kathy to bring a large hat when she comes back.

  I turn to contemplate Saturday’s gig. Not only have I lost a day and a half since leaving Troy, but I’m stuck for the next few hours with no notes and no internet, just wall-to-wall election garbage on the television. I trade a promise to sign my brother’s best-seller, Getting Britain Back, for some paper and a pen. The book’s ghost-written, obviously. I should think the last proper sentence Bob wrote was when he was sixteen. He entered a competition for one of the first PlayStations.

  I beg the wide-screen television for inspiration. A ghost-writer would suit me too. I realise that’s pretty cheeky for someone who has just escaped cranial fracture, brain surgery and arson, and pinch myself.

  ***

  By lunchtime the real doctor, Anjuna Joshan, confirms that I’ll be released after breakfast on Friday – she wants me in one more night to be certain. I’m disappointed but realise that I am still in shock from the accident, and carry on surfing the TV for pigswill (‘Future Tories pledge flat income tax’) and comment on pigswill (‘They think this is a game-changer but we’ll have to see’).

  To prop my eyelids open I watch Short Sharp Shock, Angela Deil’s Thursday afternoon show. As the polls shift towards BG, trust Shock News to be there, leading where the wind blows. I met Angela only the once, twelve years ago, but some things about people don’t change.

  On screen, Angela has gained rather than lost vim. A short skirt shows off the thigh work-out devised by her personal trainer (all the rage after Trump brought them into the White House to tone up the eye candy). Her stilettos are a perfect colour match to her hair. Both radiate the colour and tang of Valencia oranges. Whether nature or nurture are owed the thanks, age shall not weary her curls, nor the years condemn.

  The camera loves her. In return her body language makes clear that breaking out of the corporate suite to do her own show on a Thursday afternoon is just so much fun. Her target isn’t numbers but evening news editors and drive-time show hosts hungry for stories with a bit of fire in the belly and pre-TGIF sparkle. Angela’s speciality is news-oriented cocktails, putting guests into the blender and shaking them up before scooping crushed ice over their battered reputations.

  The cocktail-in-progress is a Stupid General. The recipe starts with a plump, retired grandee of the army who is living in a bygone era and ends with a rout.

  ‘It’s a question of whose finger can be trusted on the nuclear trigger,’ Angela summarises.

  ‘Exactly. Our nuclear deterrent is in the direct charge of the Prime Minister. There is a video link from No 10 to the control bunker, from which the signal is sent to one of our Vanguard submarines which is on patrol somewhere in the ocean, ready to fire, at all times. One submarine’s missiles could annihilate tens of millions of people.’

  ‘And Bob Grant can’t be trusted.’

  ‘That’s not just my view, but the view of a number of serving officers at the highest levels across the armed services. It’s a national concern. The time comes when one of us has to speak out. The British public needs to know.’

  ‘If Bob Grant was elected prime minister and gave the order to fire, would those officers obey? Or would we have a coup?’

  ‘We absolutely obey lawful orders.’

  ‘A duly elected prime minister sounds very lawful to me. Or does someone like you suspend democracy when it happens not to be convenient? Because what
BG’s saying is that there’s a group in society, a ruling class if you will, which fixes things regardless. Forget what the ordinary voter thinks. It sounds like you’re part of that ruling class.’

  ‘That’s rubbish, if I may say so. I personally have served governments elected from three different parties. The loyalty of the British armed forces has never been questioned.’

  ‘What BG’s saying is, those old parties are really all part of the same game, and BG’s different. By coming out and expressing concern like this about BG but not about the other parties, aren’t you proving their point?’

  ‘It is different to have a leader of a party, an unknown quantity – frankly both the leader and the party are unknown quantities – saying that he would have no hesitation in nuking the Kremlin on a first strike basis. Unprovoked. That’s unheard of, and exceedingly dangerous.’

  Angela Deil leans forward. ‘Is it mad? Is that what you’re saying?’

  The general is oozing bathtubs of sweat. Angela probably told the studio engineer to set the general’s spotlights to rotisserie.

  ‘Because, General Goring, you’ve got to go one way or the other. Either we’ve got a dangerous madman on the loose, who should be locked up rather than running for Downing Street – bear in mind that according to the latest polls, you’ll need to lock up about twenty-eight per cent of our viewers as well – or Bob Grant’s view, that Putin has been running rings around us for years and Bob’s calling time, is a valid opinion. Even if it’s not your personal opinion. Even if that opinion is a criticism of those like yourself at the top of the defence greasy pole. Besides which, running onto the pitch in the middle of an election in your red general tabs to tackle Bob, and Bob alone, is pretty questionable.’

  The general comes to the boil. ‘How dare you!’

  ‘How dare I? Let me turn that around and ask, how dare you? Well, would you dare pull the nuclear trigger? Would you retaliate? Imagine Manchester’s wiped out by a nuclear bomb smuggled to terrorists by Russian commandos on a holiday trip to the Coronation Street studios. Forget being a general, be the prime minister. Do you wipe out the Kremlin in return?’