This is basically the first chapter of a longer work in a different style to my usual which I have been writing under the Working title The Westminster Panopticon...
Off the tube and coat sweeping, umbrella clasped in his right hand and leather briefcase in his left, looking every inch a city gent, in matching pin stripes, topped with black fedora type hat – even he, with his exaggerated sense of Englishness would not run to a bowler- Giles mounted the escalator up to Waterloo mainline station. “Under the shadow of MI6” he muttered to himself a few minutes later, as he crossed the road glancing up at the sixties tower block, behind whose windows Giles imagined that people much like himself – self consciously English and wearing shiny black Oxfords – toiled away – as he imagined he did for the Defence of the Realm. His was a great feeling for a man of just 32 years old, though he deliberately dressed and acted a lot older. A feeling of really being part of something important and selfless, and if it made him a decent living, well why not? 1986 had been a fine year for Giles so far – and he imagined that the last few weeks would go just as well. Later, he would look back on that innocent morning, and wonder when it had began? When he had first attracted their interest – and why it had been him, for by the time the day was out he would already be walking in paths prepared by others.
His goal today - as usual - a grimy Victorian house in a nearby terraced side street which housed his own effort for the Defence of the Realm, the politely though grandiosely named Freedom First, of which Giles was both founder and one third of the employees. One of the others being, he sometimes indulged himself in thinking, his very own Miss Moneypenny, in fact Miss Chilvers, now sixty seven and for many years a secretary in the City of London, working for Britain’s top bankers. She had a fine intellect – wasted in secretarial work – and she had enjoyed her few years with the FF far more than her career in banking. She had been glad to see the back of a lifetime of seeing unintelligent and talent less men promoted over her and earning ten times her salary – and she was acutely aware that many women her age were wasting their later years as well. She had been determined not to join them and when a family friend told of a possible political role she had snapped it up with relish. Finally, his earnest colleague and co founder, Colonel “Tiger” Tim Watson, whose stint in the Army, brought to an ill-timed close by an accident involving a land rover and a cess-pit, lent the FF a degree of military menace.
The names Giles Burton and Colonel Timothy Watson were the only ones which graced the notepaper of the FF, its other major backer, the American publisher Kevin Doyle, preferred to keep his support for the group a private matter. His close connection to President Ronald Reagan, re-elected for a second term and his enthusiastic support for the contra rebels, right wing guerrillas in Nicaragua, as well as - reportedly - his clandestine connections with the apartheid government of South Africa. All this meant that Burton and Watson were equally pleased to pretend not to know him – though they were always thrilled by the possibility of clandestine connections to anything. The diversion - by right wing American politicians - of funds from arms sales to Iran to fund the contra rebels – which had been revealed in the press over the last few weeks, had hardened the view that Giles held. He should not ever be publicly connected to Kevin Doyle, if at all possible. 1986 had not proven to be the time for public endorsement of armed revolution - especially with such cynical and corrupt allies.
Today Giles intended to continue to trawl his way through over a decade of “Morning Stars”, the dull and dusty newspaper of the Communist Party re-confirming a series of dates and events which linked the career of an up an coming trade unionist- Alan Carr - to a more sinister pro-Communist past. Arriving in what was originally the living room of the Victorian terrace, he noted that Tiger was not yet in, he preferred to keep later hours. Miss Chilvers was already answering the phone and quickly greeted him at his desk, with a mug of milky coffee.
“Morning Miss Chilvers, and how fare the people?” Giles believed that this jovial and pompous, heavy-handed humour added to his image as a man with gravitas.
This Leninist salutation was inevitably answered, “Revolting” - which Miss Chilvers duly did. For those in the know it was an in-joke, one with a serious point to Giles who viewed the working class with both general dislike and with the idea that red revolution or something similar was never far from their minds.
Miss Chilvers sighed at the joke “Silly boring old whatnot” She thought, tutting to herself. Miss Chilvers did not always approve of Giles. She was of course staunchly Conservative, a great admirer of Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher, but she sometimes found Giles Burtons own radicalism and certainty in his work and his goals somewhat off-putting. In her mind there was always room for doubt, whilst Giles had none. She at least, also saw through the panoply of props, the clothes, the shoes, the brolly on a warm day, the watch on a chain, with which Giles Burton surrounded himself.
She knew he was a least partly a fake.
“I need all the Star files 1975 – up to date as soon as you like please, include today’s”, rolling the words with a degree of relish. Giles loved the important designations and titles he managed to give the source of his income which was his massive and varied collection of left-wing publications. The basis of his collection was the Morning Star archive – the Star Files - inherited from the long defunct Mine owners and Industrialists Group and the Employers Protection Association dated back to the 1950s. Miss Chilvers sighed again, familiar with this routine “I’ll just get the articles and editions as we need them” she responded
Giles sold the information, he so painstakingly collected and collated on card files and indexes, to journalists, anxious to expose the back ground of a politician or peace activist, to Big Business, which cheerfully blacklisted builders or plumbers at Giles behest, and from time to time, he delivered to Box, the designation used by MI5, often for free, or for return information, therefore doing his bit for the Defence of the Realm.
Giles indexes lined two walls of his room, formerly the parlour of the Victorian terrace, 10 feet along one wall and nearly eight along the other, wooden filing cabinets, four drawers high, seven cabinets in all, each containing around 20,000 names, perhaps 140,000 people were listed and known by Giles. Each card contained references to an edition, or a page of the newspapers and magazines which filled all three of the upstairs rooms, of the FF; the whole place smelt of paper, ink, and the chemicals used by copiers and fax machines. When such information was required, Giles would painstakingly recover every publication mentioned on the card, and copy the article or mention of the target subject, to a new file. When packaged together with an executive summary of the information so gleaned, this became the saleable product, an instant backgrounder on a vast range of people.
Like today’s target – the Deputy President of the Government Service and General Workers Union, the GSGWU Mr. Alan Carr, the references could run to may hundreds. Hundreds of meetings announced or attended in the course of nearly twenty years of radical activism, from humble roots, as a Branch member of the then still thriving Communist Party to his present employment. His membership of the Soviet Friendship Society, the Friends of The German Democratic Republic, the World Peace Group, gradually abandoned, Giles noted through the seventies as he progressed towards respectability. Carr was still, perhaps unwisely engaged in such activity in 1981 only four years earlier his participation in delegation to Cuba, with friends from the Greater London Council, and his signature on a message saluting the rule of Fidel Castro, reported with great glee in The Morning Star, finally a photo of Carr with Gerry Adams of Sinn Fein whilst IRA bombs were rocking London, and casual support for a variety of armed revolutionary groups, Angola, Mozambique, Nicaragua, Chile, the usual leftist assortment. Among the items an article on Tibet which Giles read and discarded
Slowly and with great satisfaction Giles, designated, named and finally shamed his target. A fellow traveller, probably still a CP member, oblivious to the human rights of Eastern Bloc citizens, the oppression of trade unions in Poland and a friend of tyrants and terrorists to boot.
“All in black and white and all evidenced, all thoroughly researched. No one can touch this because its all true” Giles usually told his customers, over drinks in the Pall Mall clubs that he liked to frequent, or during lunch at the Institute of British Directors, as he passed his discrete leather folders across, a polished table or bar.
A job like Alan Carr would be a couple of days work to start, a few hours to update, and a few minutes a week as a monitored subject. Currently Giles had more than a hundred monitored subjects, mostly in the industrial sector; this work provided his monthly income.
By the time Giles had completed the checking the bulk of the references - many trips up and down the stairs for both himself and the stiff legs of Miss Chilvers -and copied and returned the 191 different articles, it was lunchtime. A couple of references remained unchecked - both to an obscure magazine published in the UK by Turkish Communists. Giles decided to look them up later and headed out of the office to press the flesh. Tim Watson was sitting on the desk chatting to Miss Chilvers. A dark wiry and intense man, Watson was billed by Giles as an infiltration expert. He thought that he looked out of place absolutely nowhere which he claimed was the secret of his success. He passed off his presence easily - whether in a trade union meeting, or a student union meeting; whether a left wing funeral, a mass rally, a peace meeting or an anarchist bookshop. In fact, most of the activists he encountered found him more than a little strange, indeed inexplicable, but were usually too polite to mention it.
The truth was that Watson preferred action to thought. He had not fitted in, in the modern army, where violence was generally reserved for the enemy, and tactics and intelligence were of highest importance, - he would have been better off a hundred years earlier. Watson, was not so bright, and covered up his inability by a brisk manner and a tendency to act quickly. This could easily be mistaken for decisiveness.
Watson now moved directly onto business. “How’s it going with Carr”.
“Just a couple of references left in “The Stalinist” - the weird Turkish one,- do you want to look it up?”
“Sure, replied Watson enthusiastically, and he sprang from the desk.
“The card is on my chair” called Giles easily over his shoulder as he left the building. Watson was delighted with the idea of looking up a reference in the “Stalinist”, because Watson’s one true strength was an almost encyclopaedic knowledge of extremist factions - of both the left and the right. His obsessive interest was detached from any real understanding of the passions and purpose which underlay the divisions and enthusiasms - the campaigns and the publications - the pain and sorrow and the righteous anger which fuelled both ends of the political spectrum - and whose methods mirrored each other. Many on the fringes of politics were dangerous men indeed - blind to any need to compromise by the certainty and strength with which they adhered to their causes. And Tim knew and treasured every scrap of information about them. His interest more comparable with the enthusiasm of a stamp collector or train spotter than an analyst – Tim was a political version of a pylon photographer, pursuing a hobby without any real grasp of the underlying power and potential danger.
“The trouble with all this though” thought Miss Chilvers to herself “is that if you only look from one direction you only see one thing – you only see one point of view.” But she kept her reservations to herself.
A few minutes walk, dodging across the road by the stairs and lifts to Lambeth North Tube, took Giles once more past the home of MI6 – where he checked out the greying and shabby lace curtains which blocked the view to each window giving it the appearance of a giant-sized homeless hostel; the block was originally both open plan and featured massive plain glass windows onto every room, neither feature conducive to secrecy.
The imposing building of the Greater London Council dominated the southern end of Westminster Bridge- its current occupants waging lukewarm war on the Thatcher Government, using public funds. Giles was involved in a scheme there, using a well placed contact to routinely obtain internal documents on the councils often bizarre funding decisions which were mainly aimed at giving support to left wing groups across the capital; Toddlers Against Trident, Nuclear Free Lambeth or Stop the Arms Dealers. Giles did not even want to walk by the building – it gave him a strange feeling of being watched - and so made short work of his walk over Westminster Bridge, after cutting through the grounds of St Thomas’s Hospital. The autumnal wind was keen along the Thames adding urgency to his movements, and Giles concentrated on avoiding the many puddles now forming in the neglected and uneven asphalt surfaces - nevertheless a few dirty drops sullied the surface of his shiny black Oxfords, and Giles thought briefly of spats, as he arrived at the Strangers entrance of the lower House, -as he thought it - the House of Commons.
Entrance into the Gothic revival palace, was effected with ease, Sir Charles Barry’s construction commissioned after the old palace was almost entirely destroyed by a fire in 1834, had not been built with modern, -that is IRA - threats in mind. Similarly, for Giles, manipulation of Parliamentary procedure – the principle of unfettered access for all citizens – British subjects – corrected Giles automatically, to their Member of Parliament- meant that simply claiming to have an appointment with an obscure backbencher ensured access.
Giles had of course a researcher pass to the House, but he did not use it continuously, as he had no desire to bring extra attention to himself. Combining a low public profile with his attempts to have a high political profile was always difficult for Giles.
Giles swished past the crowds of waiting tourists forced to queue to tour the House, and addressed a Policeman directly.
“I have an appointment today with Tony Ballcock” – Ballcock, a madly left wing Labourite- inevitably nicknamed Smallcock, by Giles and his circles. Giles of course, did not know him - and had no intention of meeting him - plucking the name at random and with a little amusement, from the Labour left fringe.. Since he had left the office Giles had been followed. Discretely of course. This anonymous figure now noted the name that Giles had given, then passed behind Giles and away. He did not know why he had been asked to do this. He simply wrote down the name on the pale pink note he had been given and pinned it on a notice board as requested.
“Yes sir, no problem, move along in”, said the Policeman, followed by a simple body search and a pass through a metal detector, which appeared to be turned off, as it did not spot Giles’s silver and stainless steel Mont Blanc fountain pen, which he loved to flourish – he thought impressively - at meetings, lunches and especially at the signing of contracts.
Back at the office, Tim hiked up the stairs to collect the two references to “The Stalinist” noted on the Carr card. The file was little used, and contained only about thirty copies of the monthly, a publication of a Turkish group. It was a strange publication, featuring a eclectic mix of left wing politics - Turkish nationalism, cultural matters from Turkey and news from the motherland, -as well as gossip and fashion tips. Its views were not particularly extreme, and it seemed that in Turkey left/communist/Stalinist etc. were mostly terms for not being a Muslim
Watson was frustrated to find that neither of the issues he required were present, and after a brief conversation with Miss Chilvers it transpired that the issues in question had been borrowed about six months before by worker for the National Free Britain Campaign - a membership outfit based in northern England. Quite what they would have wanted such esoteric stuff for Tim could not guess, but as Doncaster was a little further than the Red Star Anarchist Bookshop in Islington, he decided to replace the copies rather than pursue the matter. He set off across town by tube, knowing the extra grime of his trip would allow him to blend even better with the spiky denizens of deepest Islington.
Giles continued into the Central lobby, mentally preparing and setting up his stall, his goal for the moment to seek out new contacts, the first step towards new sales, his fall back a series of lunch time meetings from various political lobby groups. Above him loomed mosaics of the saints of the United Kingdom as well as Ireland, Saints George, David, Andrew and the anomalous Patrick still claimed as the patron of Northern Ireland, though Giles did not welcome sharing even as a little as a Saint with the treacherous South.
At midday the Lobby was already buzzing, busy with political intrigue and conflicting conspiracies. One side were Tory members, bumptious and preening -meeting constituents or journalists -glancing at watches and studying sheaves of paper with deliberate self-importance. On the other their Labour counterparts, in smaller numbers, were standing separately - many also meeting constituents or trade unionists and discussing the endless leadership and factional battles in their party, as well the possibility of there - one day - being a fight back.
Simple black TV Screens announced the business of the House currently in hand; Giles noticed it was a routine discussion on agricultural affairs. In amongst the MPs dozens of strangers were also moving, lobbyists, industry representatives, and those euphemistically dubbed researchers which could include any and every hue of political deal maker or paid interest group. The sound of the lobby was a gentle urgent hum, which filled Giles heart with joy - this place was to Giles the very centre of the universe - the heart of politics and power, it was where he prowled – he thought – like a lone wolf, half in the light and half in the shade. Like Giles many of those present were also concealing their identities or real goals and purposes. The gilded green and gold symbol of the Palace of Westminster welcomed all and judged none, its portcullis opening willingly - to trade influence – to sell and buy favours and even, - occasionally- to real political causes. To Giles all life was here and he was a big fish, in the biggest pond in the country. The lobby smelt of leather and wood, furniture polish and dust and the conflicting smells of perfume and cosmetics used in profusion by the different visitors.
He moved through the crowd, muttering a “Hello” here and a “Good Morning” there” – Sir Ian London in mustard tie and socks with a fawn coloured waistcoat and a copy of the Daily Telegraph tucked beneath one arm, a leading light of the Foreign Affairs Committee thick as thieves with the Head of Corporate Affairs for Anglo –Gold a South African concern. Passing by a brace of Conservative Central Office girls – matching Alice bands and pearls contrasting with puffy shoulder pads in striped shiny blazers, and pencil skirts, high black heeled shoes skittering across the tiled floor. Giles knew one was the daughter of an ancient Conservative peer the product of a later relationship, the other an unknown, or a wannabe. On another side the tiny corpulent figure of Lord Woodrough, skin pale and almost translucent – a known confidant of the great lady herself, Margaret Thatcher – he was sweaty and ill looking beneath the glint of the chandeliers above, his voice high pitched and lisping sounded breathy and hoarse, the scent of lavender surrounding him, swatting at those around him with a folded copy of Private Eye magazine.
Again, the tall figure of Julian Copes, newly elected Tory M.P in conversation with a junior BBC reporter, glancing anxiously over his bald pate, trying to ensure his connection with the great and good, -scanning the throngs for someone more important to speak to, or trying to attract the attention of Lord Woodrough, a fly desperate to enter a spiders web. This was the game, finding the inner circle within the inner circle – in hopes of entering the golden circle, those in direct contact with the Prime Minister or the Cabinet, desperate to have the chance to absorb the glamour of the power, to direct or misdirect - or just to glory in the spotlight. Copes, with his grammar school background and formidable intellectual reputation lacked that entry- but aimed to get it.
Giles had been sidling closer to Woodrough, sneering at Copes, when he caught the eye of an unwanted associate, - an encounter he had not been planning, and would have been keen to avoid, David Smith -a radical right student leader. It was not that Smith and his coterie did not have views so far to the right of those which Giles proclaimed, - and they shared his innocent certainty - they however, allied them with a straight forward physical brutality, which Giles -with his polite Englishness - could not be seen to share.
“Good morning Giles.” Smiths low northern tone seemed at the same time threatening, and strangely insinuating, “Selling or buying today Mr. Burton?” he continued, the sudden switch to the formal address a deliberate strategy, aimed to confuse, Smith had the technique of the estate agent combined with the charm of a gangster.
Giles realised straight away, that Smith knew his business - indeed Smiths business was to know everybody’s business, and Giles felt the insiders glow which had enthused him since striding into Central Lobby beginning to fade. Compared to Smith, Giles was an outsider, despite his multitude of contacts, and Giles realised he had no idea how Smith made a living - making a mental note to research that topic, he attempted a confident reply.
“Oh you know - this and that - a spot of Tiffin - or lunch maybe - what ho!” Emphasising his own plummy tones, and wiping an invisible spot from his immaculate cuff, but – underneath -starting to panic under the cold stare of his confident antagonist.
Before Smith could continue, “Visitor for Mr. Ballcock M.P - Mr Ballcocks visitor please”, and Giles felt a hand tugging his sleeve, - forgetting for a moment the ostensible purpose of his presence. “You’re the visitor for Tony Ballcock, aren’t you - PC Plod pointed you out”.
A lower class London accent, - a sneer at the police - a lock of floppy black hair, green eyes, a shy pretty smile and badges, - a CND symbol and proclaiming Solidarity with All Women - Genna Jones, Ballcocks researcher, and herself a minor target of Giles tireless investigations. Giles thought fast, deciding swiftly that a putative encounter with Ballcock, to be dodged quickly by escape down one of the Commons labyrinth like side corridors, was preferable to continuing his discomforting encounter with Smith.
“Yes, I’m with you, by- by Dave, me old mate,” giving a patronising grin, he turned and to his horror, his hand was being shaken by Tony Ballcock himself, who had emerged from the knot of Labour M.Ps across the lobby, Ballcocks hand on his shoulder, Giles was inexorably being lead towards a place on one of the many bronze leather sofas, that followed the octagonal shape of the grey stone walls between its dead eyed cold marble statues. To south of the lobby, lay the plush splendour of the House of Lords, to the north the peoples chamber, preferred by Ballcock, who took a place away from Smith at the northern end of the Lobby. Smith continued to eye the odd pairing with deep interest, his interest matched by a nondescript black dressed figure, who had recently collected a piece of paper from a Commons notice board and had noted the name with a raised eyebrow. Who the hell is Ballcock? He thought to himself. Within a few hours, Ballcock, like Giles Burton was under observation.
Ballcock himself, a grey-haired and slightly stooped man in his fifties, with the weather-beaten tan of an outdoor lifestyle, and tousled suit continued to address Giles.
“So you must be for the Free Tibet meeting - Who do you represent?” He asked, flopping down onto the bench – and dropping his copy of The Guardian next to him.
Giles found himself saying “Freedom First”.
“Freedom hey - well no ones against that?”
Just then Genna Jones intervened, her voice full of indignation, “That’s a pro-Thatcher right wing front, -he’s not invited!” A black lock of hair fell across her face, showing a gold glint of an antique earring and Giles felt his throat tighten, suddenly aware of a deep need not be humiliated by this young woman. Giles rarely paid attention to the actual opinions of his targets, and had barely noted that Ballcock had an interest in Tibet, - such a concern was not after all politically damaging - but in reading about Alan Carr that morning he had digested a short piece on the topic.
“Yes Free Tibet,” he began, “I am here to give the cross party support, the meeting needs, this course unites all sides, as you can imagine - there is no ideological contest here” As he burbled on in his smooth reassuring tones, Giles noted that Genna subsided, then lost interest settling back onto the leather chair, Giles found himself finishing “So that’s why I would like to make a short speech of support at the meeting” There, - that got her attention.
“Good –good –good, take him through to the meeting room would you Genna? I’ll wait a few minutes to pick up the last stragglers,” and Ballcock turned away, as Genna stood up, gesturing for Giles to follow her. As she strode along the corridor, Giles eyes unconsciously tracked the movement of her body, sheathed in tight jeans, pink leg warmers, a tight green jacket, -Gosh the whiff of Chanel no.5 –where had she applied it? He blushed at the thoughts that crossed his mind once more, and attempted to focus his mind back onto his worsening predicament. He would make a short statement about the injustice of the situation in Tibet, he decided, he could easily do that, and if anyone influential noticed, - most likely they would not - he would pass it off as infiltration, and hint darkly about the real sinister intent of Tibetan Buddhists, - though even he could not actually think of any.
Tim Watson caused little stir, when he entered the Red Star Anarchist Bookshop. He was actually quite well-known here, and despite the paranoia of its collective management, he had never raised the slightest suspicion. Some thought he was a northern Labour councillor - others viewed him as a journalist or researcher. They never talked about who he was as it never occurred to them to question him. He was just part of the scenery – this was Tim’s assessment, and his hope, though venturing into such hard-core enemy territory was always a source of some anxiety for Tim. Only two other customers were in the shop, both had the look of students, and the chatted quietly together, smiling occasionally as Tim surveyed the scene.
Behind the cash desk today crouched the unfathomable figure, known to his friends as Red Pierre, a man both as wide as he was tall, and clad inexplicably for a shop patronised by so many vegetarians, almost entirely in leather. Tim, had developed a nodding acquaintance with Pierre over the last few years, and Pierre had noted with a degree of suspicion, Tim’s eclectic purchasing habits. Not many of the shops visitors brought across the entire left spectrum, a political landscape so divided and fissured by faction, ideology and personality as to resemble crazy paving. As Tim perused the action notice boards, that covered the wall at the entrance to the shop, urging visitors to almost perpetual revolutionary engagement, Pierre eyed him from below a furrowed brow. After staring at a poster for an anti-apartheid meeting at the University of London - and then perhaps unwisely - noting the details of a Women Only Caucus meeting on protection for Sex industry workers, Tim moved towards the gloomy rear of the shop, his feet raising static from the cheap nylon of the carpets.
Pierre found if hard to understand his visitor’s interest in the sex industry, and continued to track Tim’s movements. As he fully saw Tims face his eyes flashed with alarm. Stooping he pulled out a slim buff coloured folder and glanced at the contents. It was him alright. The photo in the folder had been taken a few years earlier, and was slightly fuzzy, but Pierre recognised him. The slip of paper accompanying the photo stated simply. Known Agent (CIA<>Then a London ‘phone number. Tim stood before the rack of back issues of magazines. Some were nearly a decade old, even here the most extreme politics did not always sell. Along the bottom of the rack Soviet Weekly was stacked by Revolutionary Newsline - Peace News alongside Workers Hammer, Workers Voice and Socialist Worker, WRP News, Camden Voice and a myriad of others.
“Not a lot of actual workers in any of that lot though” thought Tim, spotting the small pile of “Stalinist” magazines. He flipped through the numbers and extracted the two back issues he required - both only six months old, but only one copy of the monthly since. It seemed to have ceased publication. Then adding a couple of other magazines at random, Tim headed towards the cash desk, “All too easy “, he thought.
Beneath the desk, Pierre stretched out one muscle bound hand to grasp an improvised weapon, a two foot section cut from the thick end of a pool cue.
Despite his intimate knowledge of the House, Giles had not noticed they had travelled in the direction of the main Commons entrance, via a wood lined back corridor, and when Genna stopped suddenly Giles nearly bumped straight into her, again uncomfortably aware of her physical presence.
“Go on up to the speakers table at the end of Westminster Hall, take a place down there and we’ll, get a name plate made up. Its great you’re here, thanks”, and a flash of a smile. Blushing Giles again paid no attention to his new situation, and instead carefully adjusted his tie, and went through the door.
Since his arrival barely twenty minutes earlier, Westminster Hall had been filling up, a crowd of around two hundred stood or sat around a table draped in the flags of Tibet. The slogan Free Tibet Society, ran along the front of the tables, where Giles took a seat, quickly followed by a black hand written place card, GILES BURTON – FREEDOM FIRST - “In a personal capacity, a personal capacity” - thought Giles wildly - still noting despite better intentions that Genna had a soft girlish writing style.
“Hello there, glad you could come” the voice was warm and friendly but - “Oh God Alan - bloody - Carr of all people”. Carr took the seat next to Giles, dropping a tatty brown briefcase between them after extracting a sheaf of papers, and crossing his legs he turned to Giles again.
“Freedom First?” - A questioning tone, -“I thought you were all right-wing loonies, -glad to see its not completely true”
“I’m here in a personal capacity, - a personal capacity only you see – you see” Giles found himself gabbling, and stopped suddenly, comparing his own classic English cut suit – hand made and purchased for cash - as the shop refused to take credit cards or cheques - from Anderson and Sheppard in Saville Row, his splendid black Oxfords, silk socks and sock suspenders, old school tie and waistcoat - with Carrs crumpled fashionable elegance - tight pale blue jeans, and a zipper leather flying jacket matching the buff tone of the dropped briefcase, Giles could smell leather and some kind of heavy cologne. Even the heavy weight of the watch chain across his front gave him no inkling of the sartorial elegance he usually enjoyed, and Giles began to feel a little despondent. This was not how he planned his lunch - nor a situation which was even slightly comfortable. When would he learn not to trust his feelings, and - frankly - follow his dick about?
Tim fell with a heavy crash against the back wall of the shop, hearing the door slam shut, - his head still ringing from the blow that had fallen across his skull, taking him totally by surprise at the cash desk. Pierre was strong, and Tim slightly built, and he had no problem carrying his temporarily unconscious body into the shops back room.
Recovering, Tim was both scared and shocked, and glanced about him at the darkened room. Piles of papers, magazines, books and boxes; Pluto Press, The Anarchist Collective, Women’s Rights Centre, Militant Tendency; for Tim, all life was here. A Small barred window, high on the wall allowed little light into the room. Inside the shop itself, Tim realised he could hear voices raised in discussion, moving closer to the locked door, he overheard, one voice loud and clear, Pierre “…because he’s a spy, a bourgeois spy, he works for South Africa, or the CIA or maybe MI5 or all of them,” Pierre was loud and aggressive, an unclear murmur of response then Pierre again “Kill him of course, just disappear him, like Thatcher’s friend the pig Pinochet in Chile…”. Pierre had been waiting for this moment for his whole life – the moment when he would catch a fascist his mind whirled with excitement his breath came in short heavy gasps “Let us make him disappear” He gloated strangely to an imaginary audience there was no on there to listen Pierre was only intent on convincing Tim that he had allies in his attack, as he feverishly tried to call the number he had found on the slip of paper.
But overhearing that did it for Tim, he must take action, Tim did not intend to disappear, or even to abandon his civilised Richmond flat, from which he commuted each day into Westminster. Tim piled books against the door, and then took a lighter from his pocket, and breathing heavily, applied it to the bottom of the heap. In the bookshop tendrils of smoke began to emerge from beneath the door.
The Chair of the meeting – Chairman or if a lady, Madame Chairman - Giles auto-corrected, was a serene and smiling Buddhist Monk in purple and yellow robes. Each speaker was introduced in turn by the beaming Monk, to Giles mounting alarm. The small brown man, muttering through a moustache, next to him turned out to be a supporter of the Sandinistas from Nicaragua, the large beefy lady in the puce trouser suit, with cropped blond hair - a representative of the Islington Women’s Collective. Worst still, the photographer was surely the distinctive figure of Alan Nutter from the Morning Star, and it looked to Giles, panicking again, as though the editor was in the audience.
“If they run this I will have to start a file on my self” - thought Giles wildly”- But surely they won’t - “Why would a communist paper attack a communist country - even China?” This question was also puzzling David Smith who had entered the meeting a short while earlier, spotting Giles straight away, he resolved to blend in and observe, his arms crossed across his chest and his back to the Policemen checking arrivals at the Central Lobby entrance, his nostrils filled with the cold hard scent of stone and streets. He had time to kill before a meeting of his right wing faction planned for that afternoon, and the meeting could be entertaining.
Giles was introduced, and -with great confidence - gave a short polite comment on the situation of injustice in Tibet. Like a lawyer, Giles could easily take a brief and present it, his short term memory was good and he had a lot of good memories associated with the dramatic setting. He illustrated the situation in Tibet – political prisoners etc. with a few examples and statistics re-called from that mornings reading. An assured, unremarkable and polished performance. Not even worth mentioning Giles Burton in dispatches he hoped. In his seat at the back of the meeting Smith yawned ostentatiously, bringing disproving looks from those around him. Smith stretched like a lazy fat cat, this was dull, but he could appreciate that it might bring a little extra kudos for some one like Giles Burton, a famous lightweight, in Smiths gossipy mind, nothing like appearing to be broad-minded, he noted. Maybe Burton was considering attempting a Parliamentary career, this was certainly Smiths goal.
To polite applause Giles sat down, to be replaced on his feet by Carr, and a sudden upsurge of applause.
“This Tory Government…” he began “oh God” thought Giles “ …. And its friends in big business, and in America, especially that exploiter Kevin Doyle, who censors our cause” His voice hoarse with anger “and collaborates with the invaders of Tibet, are in the frame today.” This opening was welcomed with a great cheer. And it went on a thesis of dubious value in Giles view, but out of sight at the back of the room, Smith had also perked up. He enjoyed extremism; it gave the chance for confrontation, perhaps violent, not today maybe, but sometime; he was a man for whom a window of opportunity usually involved a brick.
Since Edward Heath and Richard Nixon, right wingers had cosied up to the gerontocracy in China. Driven solely by the desire to open new markets and to exploit enslaved workers in forced labour camps, they had conspired to prevent the situation in Tibet ever being acknowledged. Kevin Doyle, blah, blah ,blah. And so on. Giles had heard this all before.
“Oh fuck off!” Smith, sub voce and viciously contemptuous, but audible to many around him “It was the fucking commies you great poof” Chairs scraped and eyes turned to glare afresh at him. Smith grinned with delight, disruption was always a good thing, and Smith had had little really violent fun since his own private participation, on the side of the Coal Board naturally, in the miners strike. Smiths’ leg twitched wildly, his face taught and pale as he spoke
“Fucking Commies” he repeated “Doyle is a hero”
Giles only half listened, to the speech from Carr, his face frozen in an icy but stern stare. He concentrated on not seeming to express any support - staring at the vaulted ceiling - and then the wonderful floor - in this the oldest part of the House - dating from at least the early twelfth century.
At last it was over, and Giles stood up turning behind the Carr’s chair, to leave, and a friendly voice greeted him “Loved your speech - clear and succinct” It was Genna Jones, her eyes glinting in admiration, ”None of that party political head-banging stuff Carr did,” she shrugged a shoulder at Carr. Carr was grinning as well, and as he turned to face Giles who – head spinning in delight at Genna’s words had failed to make his planned instant get away and was still standing in his place. Carr shot out his leather clad arm and pumped Giles whilst waving wildly. Around the three of them, Genna her arm on each mans shoulder, the cameras flashed away, the busy shutter of Alan Nutter, joined by the mystified stare of David Smith and a nondescript figure in black, who would soon join him in earnest conversation. .
