Chapter XVIII The Third Chair

 

 

My first reaction was amazement; my second one panic.

The officers around me began panicking as well. “God Almighty, this is a catastrophe,” the Chief Press Officer exclaimed. “We’re fucked,” exclaimed Chris Eccleston.

If they had not panicked too I would have been paralysed by indecision. But their panic was my saviour. I could see the headless chickens and I knew how Phileas Fogg would react to that. “Stay cool, babe. Think. But stay cool.”

There was no time for running around aimlessly like a headless chicken. Mind you, I had to agree with them. Losing 2 chairmen in a row, first Emil and then Owen Draycott, for a crucially sensitive public meeting was exceptionally bad luck. However, the wagon was still on the road and I had to take the reins myself and ride it forward.

First, I had to check on what the impact of this news would have on this volatile public meeting. I asked the Press Office to watch out for news bulletins about Draycott on the radio and in the Evening Standard. I needed to know how far this accusation had any foundation, and if it did, then did it involve the Council directly? Or only the Government? If the latter, then I could ride it. If the former, I would have had to cancel the meeting.

Second, I needed to find a new Chairman for the meeting. It had to be a member of the Council as I could not trust anyone else to do our work. Grayson and the Mayor had already pulled out. Kapacek and Draycott had disqualified themselves. The local Ward Councillor on the platform, Stelios Karamanlis, a Greek Cypriot community worker, would have been out of his depth and, in any case, he had not attended the preparatory meeting. My Vice Chair, Noel Graham, was too new to this and so I could not lumber him with this at so early a stage. Just for the record I asked him anyway and he turned down my offer flat. I could chair the meeting myself but I would have been seen as too partisan as I would inevitably have been seen siding with the unpopular arguments of the developer whereas the Chairman should appear to be above that. Of course, Algernon Batchelor, the opposition leader, was a definite “no-no”. That left only one remaining person from the current platform party – Meena Chakravatty!

At first Meena refused point blank, just as Noel had done. I told her it was her or me. “Tertium non datur”. Yet if it was me it would hamper my putting forward my arguments effectively or else undermine my apparent impartiality as Chairman.

 “Meena it has to be you. This is your opportunity. This will make you or break you. But I know you can handle it. You were at the pre-meeting. You know what we need to achieve. Have five minutes to think about it!”

“How on earth can I control a seething meeting like that,” she asked in a tone of helplessness.

“Meena, you have 3 things in your favour. You are obviously brainy; you are an attractive woman with a deeper husky voice (work on that voice, no squeaking) and you are seen by them to be impartial. The rest of what you need is balls. At the beginning of the meeting you must start on time. You have to take that crowd by the scruff of their neck, shake them up and make them listen to you. Once you have them by the balls at the beginning of the meeting then their hearts and minds will follow. You know the phrase. Let me tell you one of the tricks I use when I chair a public meeting. Start five minutes late, for instance, but announce that you will do so on the dot of the hour the meeting was advertised to begin. This gives every chattering arrival and every late-comer a chance to settle down and get to their seat, while telling them that you are in control of the timetable from the word go.” She looked at me with eyes filled with terror. “I think you’ll be a sensation,” I reassured her.

I left her to her own devices in the Council restaurant to make up her mind and I visited the Press Office for more news on Draycott. It was not promising. Draycott had been filmed with one of Sheremovsky’s henchmen at a meeting in a pub in Mayfair in the process of receiving a fat envelope, presumably full of money. The accompanying text on the BBC News website suggested that Sheremovsky’s oil business had been receiving some favourable concessions in providing repair facilities to oil platforms in the North Sea. It was embarrassing and it was annoying, but bribery over North Sea oil platforms, whether founded or unfounded, could not derail the Council timetable on their planning applications.

I also noted that the website bulletin on Draycott’s resignation was barely one hour old. Our Press Office, presumably in the person of Susan, was lucky to have spotted it so soon and realized its full significance. Susan was worth her weight in gold.

While I was standing there the Evening Standard rang asking for a comment on Draycott’s resignation. I took the phone like a professional. I praised the MPs exemplary constituency work. I stated that the accusations had nothing to do with Framden Council and that the public meeting would go ahead.

 “Is it not true,” carried on the “Standard” reporter, “that Mr Draycott was due to chair that public meeting on the Plaza Development?”

I realized that this was a trick question based on supposition only. Only a tight inner circle of Council staff would have known this.

“That piece of information is totally without foundation,” I lied.

“Then who is chairing the meeting tonight, Councillor?”

I took a gamble and said, “Councillor Meena Chakravatty.”

As I made my way back to the restaurant I was accosted by Ted Grayson’s secretary.

“Councillor, I’m sorry to bother you. Councillor Grayson has already left for the opening of the swimming pool. I couldn’t catch you on your mobile. I just came running to tell you. Mr Owen Draycott’s secretary rang me. Mr Draycott apologizes but will not be able to chair the meeting. She didn’t tell me why.” I burst out laughing. She recoiled in shock at my reaction.

Obviously she had not heard the news. I briefly explained the situation to her and urged her to warn Grayson. I thanked her and returned to the restaurant. I walked up to Meena. “Well?!”

“OK,” she said after gulping in some air, “I will do it!”

“Thank goodness,” I told her with obvious relief. “I had already given your name to the press.”

“Oh, you cheeky bastard!”

“As I said, you’ll be a sensation. Just remember to keep your voice low. Change into something authoritative. But not too schoolma’amish.”

“Well it won’t be a dominatrix suit, Peter,” she replied. “I’ve got a few things to organize myself now.” She called out to Jim who was just passing through the restaurant and walked up to him as he stopped for her. After a brief word, they left the restaurant together.

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I arrived at the Meeting House with Noel an hour early. The stewards were already at the door checking invitations.

One man with a moustache had just walked in before us. I noticed he had shown some kind of badge to the stewards before he went in.

“OK, Councillors, please go through,” they said to us after checking our passes. The be-whiskered man turned round and stopped in front of us. “It’s not Councillor Axtell, is it?” he asked with a smile. I nodded. “My outfit will be interested in how this meeting turns out, Councillor.” I nodded and passed on, wondering vaguely who this “outfit” could be.

All the drawings and plans had just been pinned up. The video camera and the screen were in position. Mr Lamsden was checking the sound quality with a technician. Lord Smallbridge had just arrived. The auditorium was still empty. “Nasty business about Draycott,” he whispered to me. “All totally without foundation, you know, ol’ chap.”

“I am sure it is.”

“Who will chair the meeting, Councillor?”

“One of my colleagues. Councillor Chakravatty.”

“Oh, sounds Indian to me. I feel it will be a lively evening. We are bringing in some of our own employees to be sure of some support from the floor. This Chakravatty is OK is he? He’s up to a handling a large rowdy crowd?”

“It’s not a he; it’s a she. And yes she is up to it. I’ll introduce you when she arrives, my Lord.”

“A filly, eh? Not one of those bossy righteous women with a squeaky voice, is she? They’re the worst at chairing meetings.” (I swallowed hard. That could have been an accurate description of Meena Chakravatty on an off day).

 “No, I can assure you. Nothing like that. I’ve told her to keep her voice low.”

He walked away, visibly a little disconcerted.

Meena turned up with Jim behind her carrying a heavy lumbering parcel. “What have you got there, Meena?” Noel asked her.

“Have a look and see! I hired Jim with the Council bus to bring it here.”

Jim placed the contraption just behind the table on the stage. Meena stepped forward to unveil it. It was a large gong with a huge hammer in the form of a big metal ball covered with felt on a long handle. She hit the gong with it a few times and we could hear the vibrations all round the room.

“Well, Peter?” she turned to me. “Do you think this will grab them by the balls?”

“You bet your sweet arse, it will,” I replied with a grin. “Meena, well done!”

I had about 25 minutes to kill as I waited for the audience and the other speakers to arrive. I sat down at my allotted place on the platform and took out my briefcase with my copy of the plans and notes. I also noticed 3 unopened letters. I remembered now that they had come in that morning along with the padded envelope with human scabs. I had thrust the envelopes into my briefcase and then forgotten about them. Two were obviously bills. One was from my credit card company and one from the local gas utility. I put them back in my briefcase unopened.

The third letter looked intriguing. My name and address had been hand-written on the envelope. I opened it. To my embarrassment it was my annual invitation to a cruise down the Thames in the so-called Love Boat. It was organized every July by one of those S&M fetish clubs that are now such an important part of London’s underground culture. The invitation featured a glossy and provocative photo of a young dominatrix wearing the obligatory black cat suit but she was also wearing a peaked naval officer’s cap and a cat o nine tails draped over her shoulder. It was an eye-catching picture. From my experience of these annual Love Boats (and I had been on one such trip) the action that occurs on these five hour boat trips far surpasses the expectations brought by the invitation card.

 I checked my Council diary to make sure I could go and noticed that it came four days before the Planning Committee meeting. I gazed at the card and my mind wandered to some of the delicious experiences of beautiful female bottoms I had spanked over the punishment bench on that boat. Not to mention the spanking I had received in return from a delicate female hand.

My blissful reverie was cut short suddenly as a new person mounted up onto the platform.

Melanie Sheldrake had entered the hall early. She was now walking up to the raised stage.

“Good evening, Councillor Chakravatty.”

“Good evening, Councillor Miss Sheldrake,” Meena replied with a natural unforced politeness. She was probably the only person in our Group who seemed never to feel discomfited by Sheldrake’s presence.

“Do you know who is chairing the meeting this evening, Meena? I hear that Owen Draycott may be indisposed,” she added sarcastically.

“I‘m afraid that I am,” Meena replied a little diffidently. “How can I help you, Melanie?” (They were even on first name terms, I noticed with surprise!)

“Councillor Batchelor told me that he will not be able to make it today. Please accept his earnest apologies. He has asked me to step in. Where do you want me to sit?”

“Preferably in the middle of the road outside,” I thought to myself. This was yet another disaster.

Meena took one, slightly hesitant, look at me. She must have seen the look of shock on my face. Her mind was obviously working overtime. If she let the bitch sit where Batchelor was going to sit, directly on her right, then she would be wedged between Meena and me on the one side and Chris and the developers on the other. We would effectively be bereft of any contact with each other, with the enemy in our midst.

“Melanie,” said Meena with a disarming smile. “Why don’t you sit next to me on my left? Peter, you will be sitting on my right.” Good girl!

I quickly picked up my scattered papers and my briefcase and moved them to the other side of Meena. Melanie Sheldrake came up and sat in the seat I had just vacated without even acknowledging my presence.

All the same this was still a disaster. Yet another disaster. How many more would there be? In one fell swoop, Melanie Sheldrake had managed to upset the carefully laid plans for the core strategy of the meeting. Instead of being side-lined, as I had intended all along, she had now got herself directly on to the platform. Depending on Meena’s chairing skills, she would be able to intervene and speak as often as she wanted. What had the Bitch done to old Batchelor? Poisoned him?

I was beside myself with the fury of frustration. This was not how it was supposed to be.

Lord Smallbridge had been busy looking at the plans on the wall with Mr Lamsden. He was now on his way back to the platform and I immediately stepped down to accost him. “Well, Councillor Axtell? Everything working tickety boo? Is your Lady Chairman here now?”

“Yes, my Lord, but we have a problem.”

“Oh God, what now?”

“As you may remember, the opposition leader, Councillor Batchelor, had agreed to appear on the platform. As you know he supports the development.”

“Of course he does, I have met him. He’s a decent chap and very reasonable.”

“Unfortunately, he’s not turned up. He’s sent the Deputy Leader to sit in his place on the platform.”

“And the problem is….?”

“The Deputy Leader is Melanie Sheldrake.”

“No!!! Can’t you stop her? Can’t you get another opposition councillor? Can’t you say that only Batchelor was invited to sit on the platform on a personal basis?”

I shook my head sadly. Lord Smallbridge broke out in litany of profanities that had probably graced many a beautiful countryside scene when the announcement had been made that the dogs had dropped the fox’s scent. We both looked up to the platform. Melanie Sheldrake was engrossed in reading something. Meena was looking around the large room. She was watching the public as they slowly sauntered in, some looking at the plans and some taking their places. She saw me and waved. I signalled to her to come down and join us. It gave me an opportunity to introduce her to Lord Smallbridge privately, out of earshot of the dragon.

Meena looked very good in a smart beige suit that would have done justice to a lady City Executive. She assured the peer that she would control Sheldrake’s potential outbursts because they were sitting next to each other. She pointed out however that if she was going to be able to control the meeting she would have to appear impartial and could not be seen to be suppressing her. Smallbridge was obviously impressed with Meena. When she had said “My Lord” for the third time in their conversation, he interrupted her and said to us both: “Look, we’re on the same team. Let’s cut out the la-di-dah stuff. Just call me “Tim”, both of you.”

As we chatted I caught sight of Chris Finneston signalling to me from the platform. Mr Lamsden was standing next to him. Oh God, I thought, what now? I excused myself and went back to the platform. The two of them were checking the order of speaking with me but I told them that they need to arrange that with Meena. In any case we could see Meena and Tim Smallbridge making their way slowly towards us, still engrossed in conversation.

I sat down in my new seat on the platform next to Chris and glanced again at my notes and then at the crowds milling in. Just fifteen minutes before the start a large contingent came in of large well-built men along with some attractive ladies with lots of make-up and some camp male dressers. One part of the contingent sat down near the front of the audience. Among them I spotted Valentina and Ludmila. Others, including big Nikolai and even pretty Boris, the bare-bottomed chauffer, scattered around the hall. I assumed he was not bare-bottomed today. There were about thirty of them. Lord Smallbridge’s fifth column was in position.

Valentina and Ludmila saw me and waved. I acknowledged their waves with a pronounced nod but had no wish to undermine my dignity by waving back. They exchanged glances and giggled.

Some camera crews had arrived, including the BBC and the German TV. The front row reserved for the press was slowly filling up. One of our stewards was checking the press credentials before allowing them to take their seats. I carried on surveying the crowd, looking for potential troublemakers.

“Councillor Axtell, this is yours, I presume?”

It was the voice of Melanie Sheldrake, but a softer voice than the one she normally reserved for me and my colleagues. Whatever pleasant vibes were likely to emanate from the softness in the voice, they were undermined by her mischievous smile and by the object she held out to me across Meena’s empty seat. In my haste to change places I had obviously left part of my correspondence inadvertently in my previous seat. She was holding my invitation to the Love Boat.

“It is yours, isn’t it, Councillor?”

She did not say anything more. She did not have to. I was looking for a trap-door on the stage that I could safely fall through into oblivion.