Taffin on Balance Page 9

But mention StarTrack and people gather round.

  Mo, Shirley and Charlotte have come to the White Lion for Saturday morning drinks. Ashley Gunn arrives while Meg is taking their first order. Debi Royce picks up on their conversation and sees a chance to light the fuse for a public demonstration of village feeling. It takes no time to raise spur-of-the-moment support. Ivy Lewis and Harry are all for it. Perry Butt and Mostyn were at the bar soon after opening time and could hardly avoid getting caught up in the spirit of insurrection – Butt by instinct, Mostyn out of duty. By noon, forty locals have gathered in the car park.

  Someone produces groundsheets and spray paint. Groups set to work cutting and ripping up strips, with rhythmic accompaniment supplied by the clacking of shaken paint cans. The air is alive with shouted slogan suggestions.

  Improvised banners rise up in the growing throng and someone suggests they all march down the High Street to the Bury Field.

  The demo is on.

  At Stoleworth Central, Sergeant Dave Walls takes a call from an anonymous Lasherham resident and before the march reaches the end of the High Street, Erica Lyle has left her desk at the Stoleworth Observer and is in her car heading for the scene.

  The gathering has swelled by the time it reaches the Bury Field. Banners rock over the heads of the marchers with an assortment of hastily sprayed messages:

  BACK OFF STARTRACK

  AXE THE TRAX

  TELL STARTRACK WHERE TO GO

  There are others, too, rendered more or less illegible by over-excited use of spray cans.

  A strident voice starts the chant – ‘SCRAP STAR TRACK... SCRAP STAR TRACK...’ and the crowd picks it up.

  Once gathered in force, the assembly realizes it needs a focal point – someone to listen to – and there follows an exchange of questioning, challenging and competitive glances.

  Tony Newton, Chair of the Parish Council, isn’t used to spontaneous action and hesitates just long enough to discount himself.

  Debi Royce believes decisions are taken by those willing to shoulder the burden – by those who show up, someone said – and is sporting enough to allow a moment’s delay before stepping forward.

  ‘Has anyone got a loudhailer?’ she yells, but no one hears her.

  Erica Lyle has parked across a private drive at the end of Church Street and arrives at Bury Field in time to see Debi Royce waving her arms.

  That’s where the story’s going to be. Erica is at Debi’s side in a heartbeat, urging people to gather round. Perry Butt, recognizing the instinct of a fellow newshound, grabs Erica roughly by the arm.

  ‘Go for the throat,’ he tells her. ‘If you call yourself a journalist, forget the piffling political correctness that plagues your generation – write this so the bastards understand the contempt in which we hold them.’

  Erica tries to shake off the gnarled hand that grips her, reads madness in the old fighting-cock’s face and switches on her business smile.

  ‘I’ll write truthfully about whatever happens,’ she assures him. ‘Let me get on with my job.’

  ‘It’s not just the bloody railway.’ Butt’s plume of white hair stands proud from his blazing forehead. ‘It’s their gratuitous dismissal of the public – that’s what rankles – their cynical indifference to the very people to whom they owe their positions – and these self-serving bloodsuckers should have their faces rubbed in it every time they dare to evade, prevaricate or condescend to us. Write it with bloody passion, no mercy, no prisoners, veins in your teeth – or don’t write it at all.’

  Erica tries to back away from the shower of spit that accompanies this outburst, then feels the force of it like an electrical charge hitting her nervous system at its core.

  ‘You’re fucking right I will,’ she throws at him. ‘You think I’d let Gordon Glennan off lightly after the damage he’s done around here? Or his oh-so-charming wife, for that matter? No fucking way.’

  ‘Good girl,’ Perry Butt growls in her face; then he lurches off into the crowd leaving her to wonder what he must have been like in his youth.

  Erica stations herself where she perceives the action to be – at Debi Royce’s elbow. Debi has acquired a loudhailer and has begun to improvise with no clear idea of what to say to an impromptu gathering of chanting villagers.

  ‘WHAT DO WE WANT?’ she yells – then gropes for a follow-up line. The ongoing chant gives her the clue and she continues... ‘WE WANT STARTRACK SCRAPPED... WE WANT IT CANCELLED... WE WANT TO KNOW WHY NONE OF US EVEN HEARD ABOUT IT UNTIL IT WAS A DONE DEAL... BUT MOST OF ALL... WHAT AFFECTS US MOST... IF IT’S COMING, WE WANT TO KNOW WHERE IT’S GOING.’

  The throng rumbles approval: distant thunder.

  Debi shifts up a gear. ‘Where’s it going? Take a wild guess – right through here if we’re to believe the latest rumour. No one asked us how we felt about super-fast trains hurtling under our feet. No one mentioned StarTrack until the plans were well advanced – done and dusted – a fait accompli.’

  The rumble swells...

  ‘No one had the courtesy to mention we were going to have our lives uprooted. Why was that, do you think?’

  ... harder rumbling, with derisive undertones...

  ‘Were they afraid we might object? Do they care? Could it be they don’t give a stuff about any of us?’

  The throng lets loose, thunder bellowing across the field...

  ‘And who’s in charge of this nightmare?’ Debi Royce feels herself grow in stature as she surveys the faces before her. ‘I’LL TELL YOU WHO – YOUR VERY OWN GORDON GLENNAN EM PEE, MINISTER WITHOUT BOLLOCKS – RESIDENT OF THIS PARISH. IT’S TIME FOR HIM TO TELL US WHAT HE’S GOING TO DO ABOUT IT... IT’S TIME FOR HIM TO EXPLAIN HIMSELF... HE CAN TELL US WHERE IT’S GOING OR WE’LL TELL HIM WHERE TO STICK IT. WHAT DO WE WANT?

  Gale force, with no particular verbal content...

  ‘...WHEN DO WE WANT IT?’

  ‘NOW...’ the crowd is ready to improvise.

  ‘SCRAP STARTRACK...’ she yells. ‘TALK TO US, GLENNAN... TALK TO US, GLENNAN... TALK TO US...’

  And that is the headline Erica Lyle was waiting for.

  JANICE GLENNAN has a way of drooping her eyelids when she smiles. Her husband dreads that look; it goes with a gentle delivery that carries a razor-edge and can reach flashpoint without preamble in a second.

  He knows she enjoys watching him on edge, wondering which way it’s going to swing. If she lets fly, he will have to retaliate within reasonable bounds, and then she will revert to the sanctity of the Moral High Ground.

  He is not, and never has been, a match for her. He relies on his status in government and such gravitas as he can muster to redress the balance, but public power and political influence count for nothing at home.

  ‘The locals don’t seem to trust you, Darling.’ Janice sets the paper aside as if discarding a lightweight garment. ‘They want you to explain yourself. I do hope you’re not going to do that.’

  ‘There’s nothing to explain. StarTrack is in the national interest; I don’t expect people who are directly affected to understand that.’

  ‘They say you don’t care, Darling. The consensus is you’re chairing a bunch of indecisive has-beens, you’re dithering over the route and you’re indifferent to what ordinary people think – have you read this?’ She holds the paper out to him.

  ‘I’ve read it. What do you expect me to do?’

  ‘They want a public debate. That could be interesting, don’t you think?’

  ‘They don’t want a debate; they want license to question economic reality, deny any requirement for progress and hurl insults at a Minister of the Crown without fear of redress. I doubt if they’re open to reason.’

  ‘Are you really up to this, Gordon?’ Janice sits back and studies him. ‘You’re a shadow of your former self. Too much creeping
around corridors of power – not good for self-esteem, is it?’

  ‘I haven’t changed.’

  ‘Something has. You’re not your own boss, are you? You’re somebody’s mouthpiece – a man of influence, but still the instrument of another person’s will. Whose? I wonder.’

  ‘I work for the Prime Minister.’

  ‘You have to say that, it goes with the job. But it’s not the Prime Minister’s drum you’re marching to. You’ve managed to complicate things along the line, Gordon. Do you think I don’t know that? You’re not as inscrutable as you might like to think.’

  The image of Frey-Morton’s ‘revolver that doesn’t exist’ appears to him in sharp clarity for a moment: the unexpected weight of it in his hand...

  ‘You should have faith in me.’ Glennan prowls the Persian carpet in their living room, hands behind his back in the style of a public figure. ‘The world I have to occupy – the world that makes our living – is more complex than you could possibly know.’

  ‘Which is why I ask the question again –’ Janice lets her gaze stray round the room – ‘Are you really up to this?’

  ‘Why would you doubt it?’

  ‘Look at yourself. Your ambition put you where you are but I wonder if you’re comfortable with it. Power comes at a price.’

  ‘Do you think I could stomach the distrust all politicians have to endure unless I thought some good would eventually come of it? You think I enjoy being pilloried, publicly attacked by people who haven’t the guts or the gumption for public life? No, I don’t – and I could do with just a bit of the support I used to get from you when I was a rising star in government. Right now I think you despise me.’

  ‘Well –’ Janice flutters the paper at him again – somebody does.’

  TALK TO US, GLENNAN (writes Erica Lyle) WHERE’S STARTRACK GOING? Following the fourth change of route for the high-speed StarTrack rail project, locals are demanding to know when to expect a final decision. Saturday’s march in Lasherham marks the latest show of Public frustration over mixed messages from StarTrack UK and Gordon Glennan MP, Chair of the select committee overseeing the project.

  Campaigner Debi Royce said: ‘This has gone on too long. No one knows where the track’s going and the people supposed to be in charge don’t talk to us. We’ve had enough and we want some answers. Talk to us, Mr Glennan.’

  Tony Newton, Chair of Lasherham P.C., said: ‘As a local representative, I must agree with the aims and objectives of this protest. The majority of people round here are dead against StarTrack and fed up with poor communication from the people running it.’

  Another campaigner, Mrs Ivy Lewis, said: ‘I’m willing to think the worst of most politicians but this takes the biscuit. I can’t believe the likes of Gordon Glennan are the best we’ve got. If you want to get things done, there are people who can deliver – you’d better believe it. Don’t ask me how I know, but I do. It’s tragic there’s no one like that in government.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Glennan scans the article again, aware that he hadn’t taken it all in the first time. ‘Who the hell is Mrs Ivy Lewis anyway, and who are these people she thinks CAN DELIVER? Sounds like some kind of challenge, in which case she should name names and not feed empty threats like this to a hostile press.’

  ‘The press will always be hostile, darling.’ Janice watches her husband calmly. ‘There was a film made about some thug who champions his village in time of need. A lot of people think that was based on someone who lives around here. Perhaps that’s who she’s thinking of.’

  ‘Taffin,’ Glennan muses.

  ‘You even know the name, darling. I didn’t think you had time for local gossip.’

  THIRTEEN

  ‘THIS PLACE STILL SPOOKS ME.’ Julia watches through the caravan window as low clouds scud across the half moon. ‘That big house kind of broods and I know there’s stuff going on in it night after night. I feel sorry for the old boy who lives up at the top.’

  Kath joins her. ‘I know McDermott said they’d move us in there when it was done up but that was just more of his bullshit. I wouldn’t spend a night in it now if you paid me.’ She turns to Rick. ‘How much longer are we going to be here? I’m getting fed up with takeaway.’

  ‘Not long.’ Rick is sitting on his bunk, feet up, reading an old motorcycle magazine. Kath peers at the cover.

  ‘Nineteen fifty-four – not quite up to your speed, is it?’

  ‘It’s interesting. You wouldn’t believe what they thought was modern in those days. Look at that bike.’ He turns the page to show her.

  ‘Promise you’ll never turn up on anything like that. Where did you get this from, anyway? The paper’s almost falling apart.’

  ‘I found a box of them – old magazines and other stuff when I was clearing out the Facel Vega. I was going to have a bonfire but this lot looked interesting.’

  ‘Whatever turns you on, Lover. Anyway, how long do you reckon we’re here for?’

  ‘Like I say, not long. The Boss is around somewhere, I told you – Ed’s seen him – so he must be figuring something out.’

  ‘It can’t happen soon enough for me.’ Julia stands up and hugs herself. ‘I wish Ed would finish up what he’s doing, I’m getting cold.’

  In the barn, Ed Pentecost is lying on his back under the Hudson with an inspection lamp, wondering what lunatic devised the front suspension. Rick was right – they’re going to have to mill up some parts.

  Footsteps mash the gritty concrete close to his ear. Doesn’t sound like Rick’s boots; certainly neither of the girls.

  ‘Rick? That you creeping around?’ Ed reaches to adjust the inspection lamp but sees only the bare expanse of concrete.

  Somewhere in the distance a door closes.

  BOB SHERMAN seldom ventures to the head of the stairs that lead to the depths of the house. He has everything he needs on the top floor and has no wish to subject his flimsy frame to the effort of clinging to bannisters and easing himself down, one step at a time, for no particular reason. He would only have to climb back up again; not appealing. But this has been a quiet day with no fanciful visitations; he is more than usually aware of activity on the lower floors and curiosity has brought him to his bedroom door.

  Moving carefully, he switches on the landing light, hangs his stick over the bannister and peers down into the stairwell, which grows darker with each descending flight. From what he can remember there are at least five rooms on each of the four floors below his, and that doesn’t include the basement. Something is going on in one or other of those rooms every night; probably maintenance work of some kind; he has never been one to enquire about that sort of thing. Now and again, though, it would be nice to be brought up to date.

  A movement two floors down catches his eye; a door opens and a figure steps into the corridor, glances up at the high light and sees Bob’s face leaning over the top bannister.

  ‘Mister Sherman –’ a voice he knows – ‘didn’t expect to see you out at this time of night. You should be in bed.’

  ‘I didn’t expect to see you, Doctor Morley. I thought I was your only patient here.’

  ‘And so you are. Off to bed now – I’ll see you again soon.’ The figure walks slowly into the shadows, down a flight of stairs and is lost to view.

  After a while, Bob turns off the light, goes back to his room and shuts the door. He settles into his chair and reaches for something to read, wondering why young Doctor Morley would be in a room two floors below him without coming up to say hello.

  Strange people, doctors. Surely those unnaturally white teeth can’t be real.

  THE STAIRWELL IS DARK AGAIN. The house is silent but for an occasional gust of wind battering the gables and moaning round the chimney stacks.

  A torch beam cuts along the corridor two floors below Bob Sherman’
s rooms. The beam contracts and becomes a pool of light around a beefy hand scrawling an entry in a notebook with a stub of pencil.

  Not easy finding your way around a strange house in the dark, especially when absolute silence is necessary. Patience is the secret; move as if in water, take your time and don’t bump into anything.

  Taffin allows himself a moment to reflect, slips the notebook into his pocket and sets off down the stairs. Some time later he is standing very still in the yard, breathing suspended, alert to the sounds of the night.

  Earlier, on this very spot, he was aware of Ed stretched out under the Hudson with an inspection lamp, but was careful not to stray within earshot.

  Someone else passed close and he heard Ed’s voice demanding to know who was creeping around, and a few muttered remarks after that.

  The hour that has passed since was well spent: old Bob Sherman’s brief exchange with ‘Doctor Morley’ was useful. Taffin now has a clearer picture of who he’s dealing with. The note in his book reads: Tooth Fairy (Silver) is Doctor Morley.

  An owl hoots somewhere. The barn is closed up, so Ed is back in the caravan.

  Taffin pictures Charlotte tucked up in bed in the Mitres Well Lane house, with Mo and Shirley on the other side of the wall if required; then he reminds himself she’s not there: she’s in Ashley Gunn’s unfinished barn conversion and probably freezing.

  He rubs his hands against the chill. Work to be done that won’t wait. He watched from the shadows as The Tooth Fairy searched four rooms tonight. The man is going through the house meticulously, and will no doubt carry on until he finds what he’s looking for.

  Instinct says it’s important to get there first.

  ‘MAKING MONEY is one thing. Understanding what money means is something quite different.’

  ‘I know what it means.’

  ‘I wonder if you do.’ Daniel Frey-Morton regards his visitor calmly. ‘For most people, money is security, the illusion of freedom, purchasing power, a certain standing in society, the ticket to a life without worries. All trivial.’