The taxi pulled onto the rank outside Glydbourne Station, from where the driver could just glimpse the newly arrived 11.10 westbound train. His fare, who had booked from last night, would be among the dozen or so passengers filtering out. Sure enough, the man who had identified himself on the phone as Sir Alastair Gough-Bowen spotted him and turned in his direction. The driver recognised him immediately from the many times his face had appeared on both television and newspaper as The Right Honourable Sir Alastair Gough-Bowen, MP, Her Majesty’s Principle Secretary of State for the Home Department, or usually just Home Secretary. But in truth, that title no longer belonged to him. Having served a remarkable seven and a half years in that one highly prestigious post, the Tory government had at last lost an election. Sir Alastair chose not to stand in that election, citing “other interests”, and therefore faded somewhat from public life.
“You must be Mr Grudge,” said Sir Alastair, poking his head toward the open window of the cab.
“Sure am, Sir, please climb aboard. It’s a privilege to be sure,” said Grudge.
“You know my destination?” asked Sir Alastair from the rear seat.
“Sure do, Sir, the Bombastic Hotel. Quite swanky.”
“But you understand I need collecting in four hours?”
“Sure thing, Sir, you can rely on me, and that’s the truth. Grudge by name but not by nature.”
“Very good. Now please will you be quiet until we get there?”
“Sure will, Sir, silent as a mouse in slippers.”
The Bombastic was twenty minutes away in a leafy and expensive part of town. Sir Alastair had chosen this venue for his radio interview for two primary reasons, not least of which was it’s obscure location with easy access to the motorway. This was essential as the four by four that he had previously positioned for his post haste getaway was parked but half a mile away. Secondly, crucially, because of the nature of how the BBC made these radio interview programmes, rather than using up studio space, any hotel room would suffice with simply the interviewer, interviewee and the sound man. The tapes would be edited afterwards ready for broadcast.
The Grudge taxi, the only taxi, pulled up outside the hotel. “Here we are, Sir,” said Grudge. “We’ll settle up after I take you back to the station.” Sir Alastair got out without a word.
He was met in the foyer by a pretty brunette who identified herself as his interviewer, Hilda Strobe, a moniker that did not suit her well. She was known within the Corporation for being an uncompromising yet genial host. Sir Alastair immediately took to her. “Excellent”, he thought to himself. “She will do.”
The Bombastic was a sturdy, well made building. With massive thick walls, sound didn’t carry, and this made it ideal for recording radio shows. Amongst other things.
Hilda led Sir Alastair via the lift to Suite 401, the penthouse. It was large, bright and airy with beautiful views from the wall to wall picture windows. The recording equipment was set up on the dining table with chairs positioned on three side. One was already occupied by what appeared to Sir Alastair to be a scruffy, hirsute gnome.
“This is my sound man, Josh,” introduced Hilda, “known as ‘Ears’. Not for the obvious reasons,” she explained, “but because nobody actually knows what his look like. They’re always hidden under his headphones.” Ears waved and garbled a greeting that may or may not have included the word ‘Hi’. “Typical BBC twat,” mused Sir Alastair to himself.
Josh had always been interested in sound. As well as being the drummer, that had been his responsibility when he had been in a band. The group, which delighted under the name ‘Profligate Spendthrift’, had described itself as goth/punk contrapuntal fusion. They played for their own pleasure, mostly to empty rooms.
“Please sit here, Sir Alastair,” gestured Hilda. “We’ve already done the sound checks, so we’re ready to go.” Hilda was a rapidly rising star within the Corporation, with hopes of breaking into television in the near future. It was not to be.
“Are we running, Ears?” she asked. Josh answered by pointing to the spool of tape on the recorder turning obediently. With a nod, Hilda began.
“Good evening, Sir Alastair, and welcome to ‘Probe with Strobe’. Now, when you approached us here at the BBC requesting an interview, you intimated that you had insights into the Home Office as a result of your long and dramatic career as the boss; insights that you claim the nation might like to be made aware of.” Hilda leaned forward expectantly, a technique used to draw her guest in, to make them feel important. “Could you elaborate?” she asked, pointedly.
Sir Alastair also lent in, staring directly into Hilda’s lovely brown eyes. She recoiled. “You have no idea, have you?” Sir Alastair barked, voice rising. “Not a fucking clue!”
Hilda, shocked and frightened at Sir Alastair’s unwarranted outburst, gathered her professionalism enough to attempt to remain in control. “Please, Sir Alastair, I very much want to hear what you have to say,” she said calmly. “But there’s no need to shout and swear.” Ears, seated behind Sir Alastair, was frozen in time, not breathing. But the tape, unaffected, continued to turn regardless.
Thirty long seconds of silence passed. A minute. Sir Alastair and Hilda Strobe locked eyes. Ears still did not dare to breathe.
“I’ve had to do wet work for this country, did you know that?” asked Sir Alastair.
Confused, Hilda asked, “What exactly do you mean, Sir Alastair?”
“Kill them, liquidate them,” he enunciated slowly. “Wet work.”
Hilda was stunned. “Surely not, Sir Alastair, this is England.”
Grim determination was etched on Sir Alastair’s face. This is what he had come to say. The prestigious job for which he had toiled so hard to obtain had turned him into a criminal of the highest order. He’d had very little choice in the matter. This country of ‘Queen’ and ‘Pomp’ and ‘Circumstance’ had done this to him, and he would make it pay. And so too would others.
“I became Home Secretary,” said Sir Alastair, leaning back in his chair and crossing a leg. “I learned that England is under constant attack, from both within and without. The ‘within’ was my remit. For as long as England has had a government it has dissidents, revolutionaries, subversives and malcontents which often necessitates swift and punitive action. At times this can be deemed illegal. I hated it but…well, I got sucked in. Then comes the killer blow, forgive the pun. I found it could be extremely lucrative. Why pay a government hit man at high cost when you could take the job on yourself? My heart turned black. I could see it when I looked in the mirror.
“I served under three Prime Ministers. One was of short stature. Behind her back we called her ‘The Runt’. Another was trying to reintroduce fox hunting. We called him ‘The Hunt’. The other was a Cambridge graduate who studied and sang at Kings College and was a keen boater on the River Cam. We called him ‘The Punt’. They all had something in common and it rhymed. And I hated them all with a passion; their lies, their deceit, their greed. Still, I became one of them and I hate myself for it, but now it’s too late.” Sir Alastair looked to Hilda. “I’m sorry I shouted at you.”
Hilda’s mouth was doing a passible impression of a goldfish and Ears had turned a shade of blue. “Why are you saying all this? On tape.” Hilda, always the slick interviewer, struggled to get the words out. “This may never be allowed to go out.”
“Oh, it will go out,” said Sir Alastair confidently, feeling the need to elaborate. “Look, I have…acquired a small fortune and it is waiting for me in a vehicle I have parked nearby. My escape plan is in place. But before I take my leave I want the world to know about this country and it’s esteemed leaders. I’ve already sold this tape to several countries. When broadcast, this interview will devalue and demote England to third world status while I will be laughing. Good God, this makes me sound like a very bad Bond villain.”
“You are scaring me, Sir Alastair,” said the shell-shocked Hilda, “ but there is surely one problem that you have overlooked.” The tape continued to turn.
“Which is?” asked Sir Alastair.
“This recording is now property of the BBC. You signed the contract,” replied Hilda. “As awful as your story is, it belongs to us now.”
“Yes, I agree with you, Hilda. I cannot fault the legalities, but I must point out that at this particular moment in time we are in a hotel room, just the three of us. Nobody else.”
“Which means what, Sir Alastair?” she queried, at which point Sir Alastair reached into an inside pocket, brought out a hand gun and shot Hilda in the forehead.
Bang!
Sir Alastair briefly turned to former band drummer with ‘Profligate Spendthrift’, Ears. No words in the English language could have accurately described the looks now occupying his face. But something new occurred. He removed his headphones. Surprisingly his ears were perfectly normal, which mattered not when the bullet was shot through one to exit the other.
Bang!
The tape, untouched, still turned, still recorded. Sir Alastair viewed his lethal handiwork and felt just the smallest tinge of regret, but his years of government ‘wet work’ had taught him that there were always going to be innocent casualties. “Shame, though,” he thought. Hilda Strobe was foxy.
Sir Alastair then spoke into the mike. “People of England, this tape is being broadcast to you from an undisclosed location over seas. It is a statement of fact describing how your governments, present and past, have deceived and lied to you through politicians who only have their self interests at heart. They do not care about you. I confess to being one such politician. Goodbye from ‘Probe with Strobe’ with me, Alastair Gough-Bowen and the late presenter Hilda Strobe and her rather leaky assistant, Josh. Good day.”
Sir Alastair stopped the tape, rewound it, removed it from the machine and placed it inside a case that had belonged to Ears and contained a recent picture of his five year old daughter Mildred. Sir Alastair noted it and for just a spark, the briefest of moments, he realised that, because of him, Mildred no longer had a dad.
“Fucking politicians,” he mused.
Grudge had experienced a particular and unusual day since dropping off Sir Alastair. He had actually been rather busy and had made some decent money for a change. But the man had disturbed him. He was odd and frankly quite scary. So when the call came for collection at the Bombastic he dropped everything and was there within fifteen minutes.
“Grudge, thank you,” said Sir Alastair, “but not to the station.”
“Sir Alastair, with respect, the next train leaves in thirty minutes. How will you get back?” asked Grudge.
“That is my concern, Grudge. I wish you to take me to the car park on Deceit Street.”
“Of course, Sir Alastair. Have I done something wrong, Sir?”
“No, Grudge, you are a sweet man,” reassured Sir Alastair.
In due time Grudge pulled the taxi into the Deceit Street car park. “We’re here now, Sir Alastair,” he said.
“Thank you, Grudge.”
Bang!
Sir Alastair climbed from the taxi.
“Fucking politics,” he said without a backward glance, and he went on his way.
The Accidental Writer 