Chapter XX Rent-A-Crowd

 

 

That slap stung my face but it made me feel fully focused. The main intensity of that focus sprang from my anger. It was an immense anger that I did not know that I had ever felt before. It was the anger of humiliation. It was also the uncontrolled anger that springs from a strong overwhelming sense of injustice. This was probably the anger The Incredible Hulk would feel that would transform him into a green monster with superhuman strength. I glared at Melanie Sheldrake. I felt ready to pounce on her and tear her limb from limb. I even took a step forward towards her.

I could see the sudden look of shock and of intense alarm on her face. Nothing could give me more pleasure than to see that fear. She stepped back. Her anger had already swelled up and peaked as she delivered that blow. Now it was my anger that was reaching its peak and I was ready to deliver my blow. Yes, all I wanted to do was to strike her and floor her and see that phosphorescent haughtiness of hers in the dirt where it belonged.  

I took another step forward again and she took one step back. She could read my face and her death warrant was clearly visible. What could contain me now?

Three people actually.

Well, Meena and Noel for a start. Before I had completed that second step they had their arms around my shoulders restraining me as if they were performing a citizen’s arrest. And as they pulled me back, with Noel calling out: “Cool it, man; the bitch ain’t worth it, man.”

The third person to restrain me was Phileas Fogg. I suddenly remembered that I was not just a mere mortal; I was an English Councillor in the middle of a huge task on which the future of the Council relied. Only half an hour ago I had been filmed by national TV cameras and I would be watched by perhaps 2 or 3 million people. So the last thing I needed was to be seen brawling with Melanie Sheldrake. There was no way that hitting a woman publicly could be turned to advantage in this day and age. On the other hand being struck by a woman was not good media copy either. The less said about that the better.

I looked around quickly but the media cameras had luckily all disappeared. There was still a junior Framden Journal reporter but, luckily, no photographer. Possibly there would be a small footnote of a story in the press but with no humiliating illustration. No lasting damage.

As I watched a visibly shaken Melanie Sheldrake disappear with Dr Wheeler and a few stalwarts, I was surrounded by a group of admirers pumping my arm energetically. It was the posse of Smallbridge Raiders, now gathered together around their benefactor and ready to survey the scene of battle and congratulate me on a successful meeting that had not augured well beforehand. The resignations of Emil Kapacek and now Owen Draycott and the mealy-mouthed time-serving reticence of Ted Grayson and old Batchelor had made Lord Smallbridge nervous about the outcome. Now everything had been vindicated. Meena and I were lionized by this myriad group of colourful heavily-accented individuals. And there at the head of them was a soulful Valentina and a bouncy Ludmila about to give me the closest and the most mother-like of all Russian-style bear hugs.

“Let’s go for a drink,” said Smallbridge. “I’m buying. For all of you. You deserve it.”

We left the Hall very quickly. The young Framden Journal reporter accosted me at the exit. I signalled to the others to go ahead.

I decided to take the young journalist under my wing. I made a quick statement about the fact that “a public consultation had been held in accordance with Council policy on widespread consultations before strategic planning decisions are taken on developments like the Pinkerton Plaza site. The developers had been allowed to put their case as well as the opponents of the scheme. The Council had listened, taken notes and explained the practicalities.” End of story.

“Is it true, Councillor Axtell, that you and Councillor Sheldrake were seen to have a fight?”

“Really, did it look like a fight? Definitely not. But we did have words, that is true.”

“Words?”

“Well we did exchange our views somewhat forcefully. Councillor Melanie Sheldrake insists on mounting a political campaign against the development. She is using populist slogans where we should be debating on objective planning criteria. That is not healthy for democracy.”

“Political debate not healthy for democracy, Councillor?”

Smart arse, I thought. I hate a smart arse.

“No, you misunderstand. I am complaining about the populist form of campaigning that draws the public into campaigns which realistically are guided by extremist organizations. You remember that leaflet I read from at the meeting?”

“Yes, certainly Councillor. Can you comment at all on Owen Draycott’s resignation from the government?”

“No, I can’t really. I always respected his achievements as a hard-working constituency MP. I cannot say more as I know so little about the circumstances.”

“When will there be a by-election?”

“I didn’t realize he had resigned from the House of Commons as well.”

“It seems so, Councillor.”

“Then there will have to be a by-election, of course. In the fullness of time. Probably in September or October.”

“Are you going to stand for the seat, Councillor Axtell?”

“No,” I laughed, a little shocked at his presumption. Shocked, but also a little gratified. “Whatever put that thought in your mind?”

 “Thank you, Councillor.”

“You want to come for a drink? We are just going to relax for a drink in a pub nearby.”

“Many thanks, Councillor, but I must write my copy tonight.”

“Another time, then? OK. Good bye.”

I hurried to rejoin the others.

It was a warm June evening. We walked from the Meeting House down the side of the block to a new public bar called “The Portcullis”. In we went, talking and laughing. There were more than thirty of us. Inside it was quite crowded with many University students noisily enjoying their beer as well as some people who had attended our meeting. There were not enough free tables and we huddled together in a group around one of the bars. Glancing at one of the smaller tables against the wall I noticed my new whiskery friend, Roger Clements, or whatever his name was, drinking with another man and eyeing our group with amused curiosity. Are these two the mysterious “Outfit”, perhaps?

At the bar Lord Smallbridge flashed his platinum card and asked us what we wanted to drink. As we hesitated he ordered 4 jugs of Pimms and then a few extra vodkas and beers for the handful of males who had no wish to drink a “gay drink”.

It did not take me long to realize that the majority of these people were actually East Europeans as many chatted to each other in Russian. “I think we’re drinking with the rent-a-mob,” Noel whispered in my ear. He was obviously a little uncomfortable and stuck close to Meena, Stelios, Chris and myself.

“Say what you like about the way the meeting went,” said Stelios, “and I am not criticizing what you said, Peter, or Meena’s brilliant bit of chairing. But this development is deeply unpopular and if we back it to the hilt, we will lose many votes in this ward in four years’ time. Especially after Draycott’s been caught out with his hand in the till. What a wanker! He’s caused real grief. More so than Emil, who was basically just a public joke.”

“I think that the public ridicule will make us and Framden Council a standing joke for years to come. But Draycott’s departure will cause real resentment.” I said.

“Tell me, Petya,” this was the voice of Valentina who had crept up closer to me and took me by the arm as Stelios was speaking. “Tell me Petya, if Draycott is resigning from Parliament, then who will be the new MP?” I was amazed that she was interested in such issues or that she even knew who Draycott was. But I was used to being amazed by Valentina.

“A good question, young lady,” said Noel. “Oh and we haven’t been introduced,” he added. He was obviously impressed by Valentina’s chic appearance and her charm. No longer the girl in the strip joint she now spoke English fluently but with only a whiff of that exotic Russian accent that made her so irresistible. I hastily introduced Meena, Noel, Stelios and Chris to Valentina and Ludmila and to a third girl, whom I vaguely remembered from the House of Shame and who hastily introduced herself to me as Polina.

“A good question, indeed,” continued Noel after the introductions. “I think it should be somebody local. We don’t want someone imposed on us by Westminster.”

“I think it should be Peter,” said Meena suddenly.

“Yes, yes, Peter for M.P!” shouted Valentina excitedly.

“Yes, I agree,” threw in Lord Smallbridge, who had just come round with the drinks on a tray. “Jolly good idea, ol’ chap.”

“But what about you, Meena?” I interjected.

“Oh, my time will come, Peter. One thing at a time. I will be delighted to nominate you in my local ward party. I’m sure the constituency party will accept you.”

“Absolutely,” added Smallbridge. “You will increasingly be a media star. I can just see it. Old Draycott was such a humourless dry old stick. We need someone with a human touch to take over from him.”

“Will he get the women voting, Meena?” asked Noel.

Before he could reply Valentina chimed in with “Well I will vote for him!”

“My dear, you can’t. You’re Russian.”

“Yes, where is it written on my forehead that I am a Russian? Who can tell?”

“Anyway, dear,” Lord Smallbridge smiled at Valentina patronisingly. “Perhaps your voting for Peter may happen more quickly than others think.”

Valentina winked at him conspiratorially and then blew him a kiss.

“Anyway, to get back to Peter,” continued Smallbridge. “You need to get yourself some proper publicity. Some good PR. Start by suing that bitch Sheldrake. In fact you should make a formal complaint to the police and get her arrested for assault.”

“Getting slapped by a woman is not good PR,” I observed, “especially for a local councillor.”

“Slapped? Assaulted more like,” said Smallbridge. “And there are witnesses. You have Meena and Chris and your other colleagues here whom I have not yet had the pleasure of meeting yet. And all of these people here, of course,” he added pointing to his colleagues.

“In fact, I saw her trying to hit you several times, Peter,” added Valentina spiritedly. She seemed consumed with the injustice of it all. “I saw it for myself. It was not a slap, she had used her fist.”

“You have a lively imagination,” I replied. Actually I was quite shocked by her self-deluding imagination. Some witness, indeed! More like rent-a-witness!

“No,” I said after some thought, “but I will report her to the Council Ethical Standards Panel.” I turned to my fellow councillors for moral support. Noel and Stelios nodded. Meena had disappeared.

 “She’s answering a call on her mobile,” said Noel. “She’s gone out into the street as it is so noisy here.”

“She shouldn’t be on her own out there,” I said. “Not at this time.”

“Well, I made to follow her out but she literally waved me away,” Noel answered defensively. “Anyway, I agree with you about the Ethics Panel. I will be happy to bring the complaint myself. But without the embellishments,” he said more quietly while his eyes and the direction of his head movements indicated Valentina.

“Of course.”

The Pimms and the vodka were making their impression on our group which was getting noisier and noisier. There was loud laughter and some meandering into Russian, but on the whole the conversation was conducted in English, albeit a heavily accented one. Smallbridge was a wonderful spinner of saucy anecdotes and kept the conversation and alcohol flowing. Stelios was clearly taken up with the shameless and flirtatious sexual innuendo of the three Russian girls. Noel was responsive too but visibly a little more on his guard.

Valentina sidled up to me slyly. “Did you get my little tribute this morning?” she asked with an impish air.

I looked at her blankly.

“No little white padded envelope in the post?” she persisted.

Suddenly a light was switched somewhere in the darker recesses of my brain. “A white envelope? Yes? To the “Spanking Councillor”? That was you?”

She laughed and nodded. “Yes, a little part of me. Did you like my tribute?”

Suddenly I twigged from what part of her anatomy the little scabs had been torn from. The fruit of the birch, so to speak. As with so much to do with Valentina, my disgust was superseded by an erotic frisson at the significance of her “tribute”.

She made as if to whisper something more in my ear. But just then Lord Smallbridge moved over to us to join us. He took Valentina round the waist possessively and hugged her close to his frailer body. His Lordship was 77 years old (I had checked his age in Whitaker’s Almanack earlier, where he was listed as the fourteenth Baron Smallbridge, and with no heir to the title) but I had seen him in action and despite his somewhat chinless wonder appearance I knew him to be an astute political operator as well as a sexual athlete. Next to Valentina, however, he looked like a wrinkled old wicked uncle.

She made no move to resist his hold in front of me. Instead, she turned and kissed him full on the lips.

I watched politely, drink in hand, wondering who this show was intended for. Just how was this old Lord able to invade my private little tete a tete with Valentina?

“Do you think we should tell him?” Valentina asked the amorous peer.

“I think he is close enough to us for that, Valie” he answered graciously.

“We are engaged,” she announced. She held up her hand with a beautiful sapphire and diamond engagement ring which flashed even in the dim light of the pub. My jaw must have dropped in amazement.

“Congratulations,” I gulped. “When are you two getting hitched?”

“Next Thursday. A little private ceremony in St Margarets Church near the House of Commons.”

“Private?” I blurted. “Just next to the Houses of Parliament? And alongside Westminster Abbey? You call that private? Churchill got married there, didn’t he?”

“Indeed, old chap, how well informed you are. But it is a private ceremony. Just ten or so people. I’m sorry that we had no opportunity for you or others to know. Please keep it quiet. Mum’s the word, ol’ boy.”

“Well, Tim? Why can’t we invite Peter? He is like an old friend.”

“My friend, it’s all very informal. It’s not Four Weddings and a Funeral, you know. It’s next Thursday afternoon July 7th at 3 o’clock. In a side chapel. So no formal invite. No formal dress. None of that morning suit business. But please consider yourself invited. Come with a friend”

“Or with your Mother,” said Valentina. “I’ve heard so many nice things about her.”

“She’d be flattered to attend. Unfortunately she will be on holiday.”

“On holiday? How nice. Off to Brighton or somewhere?”

“No, on a cruise, would you believe? At her age!”

Smallbridge and Valentina exchanged a meaningful glance.

”What about your friend Meena? Meena the super chairman?”

“Thank you for the invitation. I will ask her.”

Smallbridge and his bride-to-be suddenly turned their attention to an amusing joke being told by Chris Finneston. For a minute or so I stood alone apart from the group and divorced from its merriment.

Meena came back. She seemed out of sorts with the loudness of the group and looked a little tense. To my questioning eyes she responded simply with the words “I’ll tell you later.”

A BBC TV camera crew had appeared suddenly out of nowhere. I noticed them interviewing drinkers at the table. After a few minutes, somebody pointed them in our direction.

A sprightly young interviewer stepped forward. I recognized her from the meeting.    “Councillor Axtell?”

I nodded.

“We were just walking around asking residents of Framden South what they thought of the resignation of their MP.”

“I take it they’re not best pleased.”

“Did you want to comment to the camera about that, Councillor?”

I pondered for a few seconds. “Go on,” said Smallbridge. “Go for it,” urged Noel.

“I’d rather not,” I said. “I only know what I have heard in the media. It wouldn’t be fair.”

“Let me sum it up the situation for you, Councillor,” said the journalist, “People listening to the news will know that Owen Draycott suddenly announced at lunch-time today that he was responsible for receiving payments from the Nafta Ural Corporation and would resign from the Government. He was summoned to 10 Downing Street within 2 hours and came out without saying a word. At about 7 o’clock a statement came from the Prime Minister’s office that he had resigned his seat in the House of Commons as well as from the Government. We note that Nafta Ural are big investors in the Pinkerton Plaza development. We are asking Mr Draycott’s constituents if they are concerned about this. It would be good to get your comment, Councillor.”

I hesitated again. I took a deep breath. Meena came up to me and squeezed my hand.

The reporter suddenly recognized Meena. “Councillor Chakravatty, will you want to comment too?”

“No,” she replied, “but Peter definitely should set the record straight.”

“OK, Councillor?” this to me. I nodded. “OK, but no questions about the Mayor’s chair or anything like that.”

“Agreed, Councillor. That’s all old news. This is just a couple of questions.” I nodded again.

She beckoned forward the cameraman, who had been busy sweeping his camera over the punters in the bar. I saw the camera lens swing round and face me like a hooded snake. I was face to face with it. Behind it are the people of Britain. God, what a corny thought.

“Councillor Peter Axtell, you are Chairman of the Planning Committee at the London Borough of Framden. You have just conducted a well-attended consultation meeting with the people of the Borough concerning a large scale housing and commercial development in your Borough which is substantially funded by the Russian organization Nafta Ural. Today the MP representing this area, Mr Owen Draycott, has resigned because of allegedly receiving bribes from that same organization. Are not the residents of Framden concerned at this suspicious connection?”

“I am sure that, like me, the people of Framden are deeply disappointed at this news about a hard-working servant of the people whom we have all respected and trusted for so many years. None of us had any awareness of this connection until we heard the news a few hours ago. There is therefore no link between what Owen has been accused of and what is being decided next month in Council over the Pinkerton Plaza development. Here it is a straightforward case of a Council carrying out its statutory duty to approve or reject a planning application for a large development. The method by which this decision is made through elected representatives of the people of this Borough precludes any chance of populist politicking or any corruption. This is because the criteria on which the decision is being taken are objective ones.”

“Surely, Councillor, the decision has already been made. Despite the mass objections from local residents you appear to be pushing ahead with approving the scheme on a hurried agenda.”

“Absolutely not true,” I countered. “How can you possibly accuse us of a hurried agenda? First, we have to consider every application within 4 months of it being received, as otherwise the developers can get their decision from the Government by default. So, there is no unorthodox hurried timetable. Secondly, the Council has made no decision. It is totally impartial in this development. We see the benefits springing from it but we need to see and hear the views of the people and take on board any reasoned objections so that our final decision is a just one. It should both serve the people of this Borough and comply with the law of the land.”

“You say you have had no knowledge of Owen Draycott’s links with Nafta Ural?”

“That is right.”

“We understand you had lunch with Mr Draycott yesterday. Did he not discuss his resignation with you then?”

“Good Lord, no!” I was genuinely surprised by how knowledgeable the reporter was, bearing in mind she had run into me supposedly by chance. “We discussed other matters totally unconnected with that.” (Strictly this was not true. I had gone to brief him on the development and discuss tactics for the public meeting he was due to chair. My God, what was I being drawn into?)

“We have heard that you and another Councillor (she looked at her notes) Melanie Sheldrake came physically to blows after the public meeting today. Was this because you support the development and Councillor Sheldrake opposes it?”

“Firstly, we did not come to blows. We have differences of opinion. That is only natural. We are in political parties that are opposed to each other, and that is what democracy is about. It is also true that Councillor Sheldrake has criticized this development. That is her personal opinion. In my case, I neither support nor oppose the development. My colleagues and I will reach a conclusion at the Planning Committee on July 12th. when we have heard all the evidence and not before.”       

“Thank you, Councillor Axtell.” As they put away the camera I told them the journalist somewhat crossly that I had expected only two questions and that I considered the last question an imposition.

The journalist apologized and said that the last question was suggested to her by her programme editor watching the interview on a monitor and speaking into her earpiece. “Anyway,” she added patronizingly, “I thought you did very well, Councillor.”

As the TV camera team left, Noel told me had had a message from Ted Grayson on his mobile. He was desperate for me to ring him. I walked out of the pub into the street outside and phoned him. The phone was engaged. I left him a voice message that all had gone well, that I had had a BBC interview which might be used next morning on the news and that I had managed, with Meena’s help, to ride the Owen Draycott storm. I also added that thanks to Sheldrake the development had now become a party political issue and that their leader Batchelor had failed to turn up.

I checked my phone for other messages. The first was from my mother so I rang her to give her a report and to tell her that I might be home a good deal later this evening. There was a message from Ted on my phone as well saying that the swimming pool opening had gone well but all the journalists present wanted to know his views on the Owen Draycott affair and its ramifications on the Pinkerton Plaza. The last message was from an undisclosed telephone number and said simply, “I will call later”. It sounded like Roger, the whiskered gentleman.

I stood in the street watching the main traffic proceed onto London’s northern inner ring road. I listened to the continuous noise and watched the red tail lights spin past. In my dazed mind, battered by the events and emotions of the day and sozzled by the Pimms, the traffic had become part of some mysterious cavalcade heading to an unknown destination hidden behind the recently departed sun. I blinked, I yawned and I looked at my watch. It was past ten o’clock in the evening and I suddenly felt very tired. I was ready to fall into bed there and then. I stood there worn out and mesmerized and desperately unwilling to return to the noisy pub. Meena stepped outside.

“Peter, you OK?”

“Yes, but I’m beat. I’m ready for bed. Actually, I’m standing here because I’m waiting for the Poisoned Dwarf to ring me.”

“Well, I’m ready to go too. But there is still one more thing to sort out.”

Just then my mobile rang. It was Ted Grayson. “I’ve had your news, Peter. Well done. Please congratulate Meena. I hear she did an excellent job. Andy Trosser was in the crowd earlier and he saw her performance.”

“I’ll tell her, Ted. She’s right next to me. What about the opposition? Batchelor never showed up. We had to contend with Sheldrake. She said the party had changed its mind. Were you expecting that?”

“No, by God, I wasn’t. Something has happened to Algie Batchelor. We are having a run of strange bad luck: Emil, Draycott, Batchelor. The question is: who’s next?”

“Don’t really follow you, Ted. Anyway we can hold the line. Two weeks to go. I’m a bit unhappy about Chris Finneston though. I would like him to stand down from any role in this planning application. He is too deeply committed to the scheme. I think he is too compromised.”

“I don’t agree, but we’ll talk about that later, Peter. Have a good night. You’ve done well.”

Meena took me by the arm. “I’ve just called a cab. We’ll make our goodbyes in the pub and go.”

We did just that. We said our farewells to Lord Smallbridge and his new fiancée, to Ludmila and Stelios. We collected our brief-cases. Noel joined us as we stepped back out. Walking away from the bar I saw the whiskered guy sitting there, on his own now but still sipping his beer. We made eye contact. He smiled. “Good night, Councillor. Let’s make contact soon.” (Not if I see you first, I thought.)

 When we reached the street, Noel was very doubtful of the company he had just kept. “That was a rent-a-mob if ever I saw one,” he complained.

“Well we needed them today. Hopefully we won’t need them again,” I answered.

“I can give you guys a lift home. My car is parked by the Meeting House.”

“Thanks, Noel. I’ve called a cab,” Meena explained. “In fact, it’s just arrived.”

Sure enough a black cab turned up. “Axtell?” asked the cabbie.

Meena nodded. “That’s us. Bye Noel. Thanks for being there.”

“Yeah, thanks, Noel. You’ve been a good help to me, just where and when I needed it,” I told him.

“Sure thing, Peter, you’re like my white brother, man. Safe journey,” and he gave me a high five.

“Where to?” asked the cab driver.

Meena gave a strange address to the cabbie. He started the engine and moved off.

“Where are we going, girl?”

“I told you I had something to tell you. I had a call this evening.”

“Cut the crap, Meena. I’m tired. Where are we going?”

“We are going to Melanie Sheldrake’s practice. She specifically asked that you come.”