‘Good Lord,’ said Ashley. ‘How clever of you to remember!’
Oliver noted the instant look of relief that replaced Ashley’s initial expression of terror and wished, not for the first time, that he had the power of a J. Edgar Hoover to look more deeply into the lives of his political masters. It seemed that some dark secret lurked in Barson-Garland’s childhood. Oliver wondered if he came from a background that shamed him. Those plummy patrician tones and fifteen hundred pound Savile Row pin stripes were clearly too good to be true. Of course, with a free and unfettered press the resources of an intelligence service were hardly needed. The further Barson-Garland advanced in his career the more the media would uncover for themselves.
‘I am desolated that I do not recall the meeting,’ Ashley said. ‘Sir Charles had many political contacts of course, and I was young and inexperienced … wait a moment!’ Ashley stared at Oliver as the truth dawned. ‘I’ve got you now. You’re Smith! Good God! Smith, you called yourself. Smith! Young as I was I never for a minute believed it was your real name, even then. I’m right, aren’t I? You were Smith.’
Delft inclined his head. ‘The same.’
‘Dear me,’ said Ashley. ‘There’s an odd thing. And what a bad business that was. I don’t believe I’ve thought about it for the past – what – fifteen years? More perhaps. There wasn’t anything…’ he lowered his voice. ‘There’s nothing you can tell me about
l’affaire Maddstone
that didn’t make the public domain, is there?’
Oliver shrugged. ‘I dare say a river will be dredged one fine day and a skull dug up.’
Ashley nodded wisely. ‘Poor old Ned.’
Their main courses were set down in front of them and the
sommelier
approached to offer Ashley a taste of the La Tache.
‘The law is profitable, it would seem,’ Oliver remarked dryly. ‘This poor public servant thanks you for such a heady glimpse of the high life.’
Ashley smiled. ‘Tush,’ he said. ‘When it comes to spending money, I am a poor amateur. My wine merchant let slip last week that Simon Cotter has recently given him
carte blanche
to create the finest cellar in Europe. He has already spent over a million.’
‘Lordy,’ murmured Oliver.
‘That’s not the most amazing part of it. The man has never been seen drinking anything other than milk.’
‘Milk?’
‘Milk,’ said Ashley. ‘As a matter of fact, I am to be granted an audience with him tomorrow. If he offers
me
milk I think I may scream and go into spasm.
‘He has need of a lawyer?’
‘No, no. I’m sounding him out. His political affiliations are unknown. In fact,’ continued Ashley with a meaning look, ‘his whole life seems to be shrouded in mystery.’
‘I can’t help you there, I’m afraid,’ Oliver said, rightly interpreting the look as a plea for information. ‘We don’t have so much as his date of birth on file.’
‘Ah, you’ve looked then?’
‘Naturally we’ve looked. We know as much about him as you do. If anything comes up of course …
Oliver was prepared to let Ashley believe that the intelligence services were at his disposal. It was, after all, perfectly possible that the Conservatives were just insane enough to elect him as their leader one day. Money would have to be spent on image consultancy, of course. Not to mention dermatological treatment. But wasn’t Barson-Garland divorced? That wouldn’t do. Spokesmen for the family should be happily married. No, it was nothing more than a separation, Oliver recalled, and not yet picked up on by the press. She was the daughter of an earl, if he remembered rightly. Not quite the populist touch that the Conservative Party craved these days. On the other hand, it would never do to underestimate the snobbery of the Great British Electorate. They preferred the public school and Oxford manners of a Blair to all that forced Yorkshire ‘man of the people’ nonsense that came from Hague. As for poor old John Major…
No, the tide of history had washed weirder flotsam than Barson-Garland into Downing Street and no doubt would do so again. If he succeeded in getting Simon Cotter to unbelt some of his millions and drop them in the Tory coffers Ashley would take a deal of stopping.
Oliver smiled his most charming and confiding smile. ‘A superb lunch, Ashley. I don’t know when I’ve had a better. We should do this more often.’
‘Perhaps – what is today?’ Ashley looked at his watch. ‘Thursday. Perhaps we should meet here the first Thursday of every month? Chew things over and work our way through the wine list?’
‘An admirable idea.’
‘Would you like me to propose you for membership?’
Oliver put up his hands, ‘Above my touch,’ he said. ‘Quite above my touch.’
They parted, each glowing with a warm sense of self-satisfaction and good wine.
The theme from
Mission Impossible
rang out in Jim and Micky Draper’s cell. It was muffled by Micky’s pillow, but loud and insistent enough to distract the brothers, who were watching
The Shawshank Redemption
and in no mood to be disturbed.
‘Bollocks,’ said Jim. ‘Nobody calls on a Sunday afternoon. Leave it.’
The tune continued to play for a full minute before falling silent.
Tim Robbins and his fellow prisoners sipped beers on the roof of Shawshank Prison.
‘Lucky bastards,’ said Jim. ‘I could do with a pint myself.’
‘I could do with some of that sunshine,’ said Micky.
Mission Impossible
started up again.
‘Who the fuck?’
‘I’ll see who it is.’ Micky went to his bunk and moved the pillow aside. ‘Doesn’t say. Number withheld. Shall I answer the fucker?’
Jim paused the movie and Micky pressed a key on the mobile.
‘Is that Mr Draper?’
‘It’s Micky Draper. Who wants to know?’
‘Good afternoon, Micky,’ said an unfamiliar male voice. ‘Sorry to disturb your Sunday afternoon movie. Tim Robbins escapes and the prison governor commits suicide. Morgan Freeman finally gets his parole and joins Robbins in Mexico. Charming film. I thought you should know the outcome as I’m afraid you won’t be able to watch the rest of it.’
‘Who the fuck is this?’
‘A well-wisher calling to let you know that all privileges are to be withdrawn from you and your brother as of right now.
‘Do what?’
‘You and Jim are enjoying quite absurd levels of comfort and protection. It’s a little unfair, don’t you think?’
‘Who is it?’ Jim asked, turning from the screen.
‘Some fucking posh nutter,’ said Micky. ‘Says we’re going to lose our privileges.’
‘Oh no,’ said the voice. ‘Not a nutter. Considering that I’m taking all this trouble to give you advance warning I think that’s somewhat ungrateful. Prison officers will be arriving at any moment. They will take away your television, your toaster and kettle, your radio, your furniture – even the mobile phone we’re having this nice little chat on. I’m afraid you’re both going to have to start right at the bottom of the heap again.’
‘Who is it?’ repeated Jim.
‘It’s a fucking wind up merchant. Did Snow put you up to this?’
‘It grieves me to relate that I do not have the honour of Mr Snow’s acquaintance. This is all my own work. Stand by your bunk now, Micky. The screws are on their way. I have a melancholy feeling that they are in a rough mood. You and Jim have been getting a little soft and flabby lately, I do hope you can take it. Goodbye.’
Micky dropped the phone onto the bunk.
‘What was all that about?’
‘Some twat,’ said Micky. ‘His idea of a practical joke. When I find out who it was – ‘ Micky turned towards the cell door, alarmed by the sound of metal tipped heels marching along the corridor towards their cell. ‘Nah,’ he said. ‘That’s impossible.’
‘What?’ repeated his brother, perplexed.
A voice shouted their names in a tone they had not heard for years and the cell door swung open.
‘Draper, J., Draper M. Stand by your bunks.
Inspection!’
Five screws came into the cell, followed by the Senior Prison Officer, Martin Cardiff.
‘Well, well. What have we here? A Babylonian orgy by the looks of it. A Babbi-fucking-lonian orgy. I have never seen such decadence in all my life. Not in all my life.’ This was not strictly true, since SPO Cardiff liked nothing better of a morning than to join the brothers for a cup of coffee and a slice of toast in their cell. ‘Look at this, lads. A sofa, books, magazines, a coffee machine. Even a little fridge. Highly cosy.’
‘What the fuck’s going on, Martin?’
Cardiff’s eyes narrowed. ‘Martin?
Martin?
Oh dear, oh dear. Whatever happened to courtesy? Whatever happened to respect?’
Cardiff nodded to a prison officer who stepped forward and threw a punch so deep into Jim Draper’s stomach that he fell to the ground whooping for breath.
‘It’s
Mr
Cardiff to you, you fat cunt. You fat
disgusting
cunt,’ he added with distaste, as Jim vomited over himself.
Micky started towards Cardiff. ‘What did you do that for? What the fuck d’you do that for?’
This time Cardiff administered the blow himself, driving his fist into the side of Micky’s neck. The iron frame of the bunk rang as Micky crashed into it head first.
‘There’s the bell for Round Two,’ said Cardiff. ‘Time for a bit of tag wrestling, lads.’
The prison officers laughed as they moved in on the brothers and set to work.
An hour later Jim and Micky were lying naked on the floor of their empty cell. The screws had taken everything, even the bunk-bed and mattresses. Before slamming the door on the brothers they had hosed the cell to wash away the blood and vomit.
For five years, Jim and Micky Draper had ruled the prison. Nothing had moved, nothing had worked and nothing had been traded without their say so. The arrangement, as usual, had suited the governor and his staff admirably and they had repaid the Drapers in the usual way, by allowing them levels of comfort and autonomy that were denied the ordinary inmate. Now, suddenly and for no reason at all this had been taken away from them. The occupants of the neighbouring cells would have heard their weeping screams for mercy and their plight would already be known all over the prison. Power depends on strength and the appearance of impregnability. Many prisoners had cause to hate the Drapers and now that all support and protection had been withdrawn from them, their lives would be horribly different.
Jim raised his head. The posters had been taken from the wall and all he could see were smears of blood and buttons of blu-tak. His brother lay on the floor beside him.
‘Micky?’ he whispered, the effort shooting arrows of pain all around his body. ‘On the phone. Who the fuck was it?’
But Micky was unconscious.
Jim’s head dropped back to the floor and he tried to focus his thoughts. They would be out in a year, but it would be twelve months of fear and pain. From this moment on they were in hell. Jim consoled himself with one thought. The Drapers held one advantage over ordinary people, an edge that had helped them and given them strength throughout their troubled and violent lives. They had each other.
‘I think they should be separated as soon as possible,’ said Simon Cotter.
‘Different cells, you mean?’
‘Perhaps different wings. Would that be a possibility?’
‘Consider it done, sir.’
Cotter put a hand over the phone and apologetically shrugged his shoulders at the boy who had just come into his office. ‘With you in a moment, he said. ‘Just got to get this sorted out.’
Taking this to mean that he should leave, Albert turned towards the door.
‘No, no. Stay. Sit down, sit down.’
‘Sir?’
‘Not you, Cardiff.’
‘Is there a problem talking, sir?’
‘No, no, not at all. How are our friends this morning?’
‘Well, sir, Micky was out for eighteen hours, but he’s conscious now. They’ll both be taking food by straw for a month.’
‘Oh that
is
good news. Well done.’
‘Er…’
‘Say on, Mr Cardiff.’
‘I think you might have accidentally overpaid me, sir.’
‘How very honest of you. Not an overpayment, Mr Cardiff. Appreciation of a job well done. Your email was most marvellously and entertainingly composed. Quite beyond the call of duty. You should consider a literary career, you know.’
‘Well, thank you very much indeed, sir. Very kind indeed.’
‘Goodbye then.’ Cotter put down the phone and smiled across the desk. It had amused him to notice that the boy had been studying the carpet with great concentration, as if to imply that by not looking at the telephone he had not been listening. Quite illogical, but human and most charmingly polite. ‘So sorry about that. What a pleasure to meet you. I’m Simon Cotter.’
Albert stood up to shake hands across the desk.
‘No, no. I’ll come round. We’re not very desky here. They are tables to put computers and phones on, not for talking across.
They shook hands and Simon led Albert to the corner of the office.
‘Now then,’ Simon sat down in an armchair and pointed Albert to the sofa opposite him. ‘I said in my letter how much I admired the work you have done for your father’s company. Quite brilliant. I nearly said “for an amateur but we are all amateurs at this game and your work was brilliant I think by any standards.’
‘Amateur is the French for “lover”, after all,’ said Albert, shyly. ‘And it was very much a labour of love.’
‘Good for you! What I didn’t say in my letter was that I think Café Ethica is one of the great achievements of the last few years. Your father must be a remarkable man.
Albert’s face lit up. ‘He is, he really is! He used to work in commodities, trading tea and coffee futures in the City, but he went out there to Africa once and saw how the people lived and it completely changed his outlook. He now says, it’s not about coffee futures, it’s about human futures.’
‘Human futures, yes … very good. Human futures.
How does he feel, I wonder, about the possibility of you joining us here?’
‘Well, since the website has been rather a success, I think he imagined that after university I would, you know…’ Albert trailed off and looked towards Cotter, who nodded sympathetically.