Fifty-First State (35 page)

‘Fine,' said Jemal.

‘Back from Morocco?' William persisted.

‘I never went. I'm going tomorrow,' Jemal said.

Alarms were still going off in William's head. Jemal had never visited him at home before. They weren't on those terms. So what was he doing here now? William was anxious. Although his father-in-law's main concern at the moment was Marie, lying spark-out on the sofa bed, Joe Sutcliffe had spent his working life as a policeman. He still had the instincts. If there was something wrong about Jemal, it might not be too long before Joe sensed it.

‘Jemal,' said William. ‘You know a bit about central heating, don't you? I'm looking after the bloke downstairs's flat while he's away and it seems a bit cold – he's got all these fish in a tank and…' He tailed off, hoping Jemal had the sense to pick up what he was saying, and glanced at Lucy, who was staring at him, knowing Bob Wood had not gone away. And then Joe was looking hard at both of them.

William was relieved when Jemal got to his feet. ‘I'll take a look at it,' he said.

William overdid it. ‘He's been saving for this trip for a year. Be a shame if he came back and found his fish dead.'

William let himself into the downstairs flat, hoping that Bob would be at his girlfriend's as he normally was on this day of the week. In the neat, red-carpeted hall he turned to Jemal, who, no longer needing to keep up a front, looked worn and shrunken. ‘Is something going on?' asked William.

‘I don't like to ask – can you put me up till tomorrow morning?'

Jemal's eyes were wide and unblinking. William knew Jemal would never normally have asked him for shelter. Even with his family away there would be other Moroccans he could go to. Unless he couldn't. Unless he'd done something to one of them – stolen something, assaulted a girl…

‘Jemal – what's happening? Come on, mate, level with me.'

‘I just need a bed for the night,' Jemal told him. ‘I've got some
friends who are going to pick me up tomorrow morning,' he added.

William knew it all now. The friends were going to get him away. Jemal was on the run.

William caught Jemal's eye and detected a flicker of something there – not guilt or shame, not appeal, fear or defiance, as he might have expected, but something else. Jemal was down because he was on the run. But he wasn't ashamed of what he'd done, or because he'd nearly been caught or because he was begging help from someone who didn't want to give it. Not ashamed, because he was in the right. As a teenager William had started a fight with a Salvation Army officer in a pub – he remembered the look on the Salvationist's face just before William's fist hit his nose.

He groaned aloud. ‘Oh, Jesus Christ, Jemal – you got mixed up with one of these groups, didn't you? You're on the run. You thought you'd be safer here, with English people. They wouldn't look for you—' He paused, then burst out, ‘Shit, Jemal. Were you in on that air force base thing?' He stared at Jemal and saw the admission in his eyes. William grabbed him by the shoulder. ‘You cunt! My wife's upstairs. What kind of a way is this to treat your brother's mate? Mo would go mad if he knew.'

Jemal said, ‘Maybe I shouldn't…'

‘There's armed police all over the streets,' shouted William. ‘I don't fucking want them here.' Jemal just stared at him. William pulled himself together and said, ‘I've got seventy pounds upstairs. I'll get it. You take it and go. There's a phone over there. See if you can find someone else to help you.'

He turned, and as he opened the door Jemal said, ‘Don't turn me in.'

‘It's a temptation,' said William and ran upstairs. He burst into his own flat, grabbed his wallet, saying, ‘Need some cash—' and ran downstairs.

Jemal's piety had turned political. If he'd been in that fight at Hamscott Common he might have killed somebody. They were looking high and low for him and he was here, in William's house. He had to get rid of him.

Rushing into the downstairs flat he found Jemal still in the hall. He looked pathetically thin and was as bent as a man twice, three times, his age. William thrust the money into Jemal's hand and said, ‘Come on, mate – out.'

He walked out of the flat and downstairs to the ground floor with Jemal behind him. In the hall, he went to the front door and put his hand on the latch. The latch shook. The whole front door was shaking as the heavy thuds of something like a battering ram hit it. William leapt back, staring. Almost immediately the whole door fell in and helmeted policeman carrying semi-automatics ran over the fallen door and into the hall.

‘Police! Put your hands up!' voices yelled. William did.

A lightning vision hit him, showing Jemal retreating up the stairs, firing at the police, the police firing back and him, William, caught in the crossfire. But there was no gunfire. A foot tripped him, he fell back across the stairs and was hauled immediately to his feet and handcuffed. Heavy hands searched him for weapons. He heard crashes and shouts from the landing upstairs, men swearing, a cry of pain and then found himself being dragged, half-walking, across the carpet, over the front door and out into the street. Two men threw him into the back of a vehicle, which took off rapidly. He lay on the floor of the van, half-stunned, all the wind knocked out of him.

The whole episode had taken half a minute.

Moments later he realized he was in bad trouble. He lifted his head up towards the gun barrel pointing at him. ‘Where are you taking me?'

‘You'll find out,' said a man's voice.

‘My wife…?'

‘Never mind about your wife. You won't be seeing her for a bit.'

106 St George's Square, London SW1. February 25th, 2016. 00:45 a.m.

After the party Gott and a few friends stopped for a nightcap at his flat, and it was only after they left that the ever-diligent Jeremy, who had gone up to his own flat, rang downstairs. ‘I've sent you an email you might want to see, boss,' he said. ‘Is it too late?'

Come down,' said Gott, yawning. When Jeremy came in he said, ‘Read it out to me. I need to sort out my own laundry. Mrs MacEvoy's had an operation.' It was true, Jeremy thought, that the flat looked dusty and a little neglected. As Gott threw starched shirts, white shirts and striped shirts, making a large pile on the carpet, Jeremy, raising his voice slightly, read:

Dear Jeremy,

I don't know if you will remember me – Debby Carshaw, from Kirkby Rodney. I thought you would want to hear about Alan Petherbridge's father, Robert Wallace.

Edward Gott came to the bedroom door, holding a shirt in his hand. ‘Fuck,' he said. His expression was keen and malignant. Jeremy read on doggedly:

As I told you, I'm in the habit of visiting Mr Wallace at Christmas at Fairlawns, the retirement home where he lived. But does no longer. When I arrived for my usual visit, expecting his usual cordial welcome (!), I found that he was suffering from what he described as a bad cold, although it was obvious to me his condition was far worse than that. When I spoke to a member of staff I was told Mr Wallace had refused to see a doctor. I then saw the manager and said, in no uncertain terms, that she must call a doctor to Mr Wallace. This put her in something of a panic, I think, bearing in mind that Mr Wallace's stepson is the Prime Minister. So, to cut a long story short, not long after my visit Mr Wallace was admitted to hospital with pneumonia.

I enquired about him at Fairlawns Retirement Home after the New Year. The manager told me he was back, having
discharged himself from hospital some days earlier, even though the doctor in charge believed he was not yet fit to go. The hospital is probably not to blame, since Mr Wallace was an obstinate old man, as I expect you found out for yourself. Sadly, it was only a matter of weeks until he was back in hospital. The manager of Fairlawns rang to tell me. There was no need for her to do this, as I never had any relationship worth the name with Mr Wallace. I think she was afraid of seeming negligent, bearing in mind Mr Wallace's stepson's eminence.

Mr Wallace died on the 14th. I only discovered this a week later because I was visiting the hospital to see a friend there and thought to ask after him. I feel sorry now I had not taken the trouble to visit him. I'm sure he would have been just as unpleasant to me as he always was during my Christmas visits, but it upset me to discover from the sister in charge (an old pupil of mine, incidentally) that the poor man not only died alone but that there had been not one visitor to see him during his stay in hospital.

Apparently he had not listed anyone as next of kin. When the sister in charge saw the way things were going she rang the manager at Fairlawns and was given an emergency telephone number supplied by Alan Petherbridge's office. She rang that number, a machine answered and she left a message saying that Robert Wallace was seriously ill in hospital. After several days there had been no response and by that time she was fairly sure Mr Wallace would not live. She rang the number again but again no one answered the phone. She left another message. After Mr Wallace's death she left a third message and called 10 Downing Street as well. But there was no one at the funeral but me and the manager of Fairlawns. I attended without much emotion, I have to admit, but it was depressing to find so few mourners. There was a very large wreath of flowers on the coffin which, I imagine, had been sent from London by the Prime Minister. I thought you might want to know all this.

I was pleased to notice the defeat of the Ministry of Defence Lands Sale Bill in my newspaper. I believe Lord Gott was concerned with this, so please pass on my congratulations.

With regards to yourself and a pat to Finn.

Debby Carshaw

Gott dropped the shirt he had been holding on to the pile he had created. ‘So the poor old bugger died alone in a Yorkshire hospital,' he said.

‘He was a terrible old man,' Jeremy told him.

‘He was an old man, and he died alone,' Gott said grimly.

‘What are you going to do?' asked Jeremy, anxious in case, after Petherbridge's leak about Gott's daughter, his employer was going to lose his head and take an unwise revenge.

‘I'm not going to do anything
now,
' said Gott, ‘but it could be useful later.' He stood for a moment, gloating. Then his expression altered and he said, ‘Thanks, Jeremy. Get off to bed now. It's late.' As Jeremy left the room he added as an afterthought, ‘Find out if he was buried in a pauper's grave.'

May 2017

That party of Gott's at the end of February started a new and violent cycle in what now looks like the occupation of Britain. It's not called that, of course.

It's called American Assistance. That's why there are American Assistants who sit in at all Cabinet meetings and on all Cabinet committees. There are Intelligence Assistants (the CIA) well-embedded at MI5 and MI6. There are Military Assistants at the MoD, Security Assistants at the Home Office and, of course, Foreign Assistants at the Foreign Office. The 80,000 US soldiers and pilots stationed in Britain are also Assistants. We are a well-assisted nation. The trouble is, it does not feel like assistance at all.

It feels like an occupation. ‘A thousand years of freedom gone,' says the opposition, although any history student knows that for much of those thousand years freedom was limited, if not almost non-existent, for vast swathes of the population. But something has gone – and we know it.

I'm sitting in my garden again – under the same budding tree – some leaves are unfurled now – the sun is warm on my back. I've reached the point in my story where I became a participant, instead of a pair of eyes and ears. My involvement with William Frith was the reason.

Immediately after William Frith and Jemal Al Fasi were dragged out of the house in Shepherd's Bush, Lucy, who had heard the crashing in of the door and the sound of men shouting and feet thudding downstairs, headed for the front door of the flat. Her father grabbed her arm as she reached for the latch. He held her back. Joe had been a policeman for thirty-five years. Although he'd served in an area very different from Shepherd's Bush, he still saw events as a policeman will. Initially he'd accepted the arrival of a dirty and gaunt Jemal at the flat as just another undesirable aspect of the Friths' London life. He was chiefly concerned with Marie. But he'd picked up on William's wary reaction to him and went on to full alert when both men retreated so quickly downstairs to the allegedly empty flat. After William dashed in for his wallet Joe knew something was wrong. He was at the window when the street filled with police vans and cars. When he heard the front door crash in he came
quickly to a conclusion – Jemal was a fugitive and his son-in-law was helping him.

Holding his daughter's arm he said, ‘Let me handle this.'

Lucy obeyed. Joe went downstairs alone. It was only when she looked out and saw two police vans speeding away from the house and squealing round the corner at the end of the street that she wrenched open the door of the flat and ran off downstairs, crying out, ‘William! William!' As she ran down she was passed by two men in jeans and anoraks racing up. They barged past her.

In the hall the front door still lay flat on the carpet. The small area was full of men in uniform and out of it. By the gaping entrance to the street Joe was talking to a large man in a tweed coat. Standing five stairs up, Lucy cried out, ‘Where's my husband?' and a man below her looked up at her slyly and said, ‘We want to ask you about that.'

It was the first time in her life Lucy had ever fainted. The sly man caught her and, coming round after no more than a few seconds, she found herself in her father's arms.

As she looked into his concerned face she heard him murmur, ‘Don't say anything, Lucy.'

Joe supported her upstairs, trailed by the large man he'd been talking to. Inside, the sounds of heavy searching could be heard from the bedroom and the kitchen. In the sitting room was Marie, in her nightdress, on her knees by the TV in front of a pile of DVDs heaped on the floor. She looked up brightly when she saw her husband and daughter. ‘Here it is!' she said brightly, ‘
Puss in Boots!
We thought we'd lost it.' And as Joe and Lucy came in, followed by the man in the tweed coat, she said, ‘I'll put it on.' Then came a loud noise from the bedroom as the wardrobe was pulled away from the wall. And the sound of music from the set, as brightly coloured images began to flit across the screen.