Whispers of Betrayal. Michael Dobbs

with remarkable success in every region from Hampshire to the Highlands. Up to now.

      ‘We’d need some justification,’ he continued. ‘Apart from the bloody obvious.’

      The Walrus blew his nose on a large red handkerchief, shaking himself as he collected his thoughts. ‘Well, I suppose we start by rounding up the usual suspects. You know, the competition from Eastern Europe. The financial crisis in Latin America. Short-sighted bankers. That sort of thing.’

      ‘Perhaps we could get Brussels to bail us out.’ Bendall threw the suggestion into the air to see how it might fly. ‘Could we get the Commission to rule the Yuppie programme invalid? You know, not only save the money but also get a good stand-up row with the French.’

      ‘It might be arranged.’ The Walrus nodded in appreciation. ‘But we’d still be stuck with a substantial increase in the unemployment figures.’

      The Prime Minister brightened, as though television lights had been switched on. ‘No, not necessarily. You see, I’ve long been of the opinion that the unemployment figures are …’ – he paused, like a conductor with baton raised to attract the attention of the orchestra – ‘that the unemployment figures are exceptionally crude. One enormous rubbish pit into which everything is dumped. Young people who’ve never had a proper job. The middle-aged who may never get another job. The unqualified, the infirm, the idle and apathetic.’ He loved toying with phrases. Many of his policies had been built on little more than the appeal of alliteration. Phrases were so flexible. If one didn’t work out, you changed it, found another. Didn’t do much for continuity but made for great sound bites. ‘You know, I feel an overwhelming sense of public responsibility to make sure the unemployment figures are cleaned up. And broken down. Into their constituent parts. They need to be rationalized. Redefined. Redistributed. Add a few categories here, maybe take a few categories there.’

      ‘Create so much smoke that no one will be able to see through it clearly enough to know what the hell is really happening.’

      ‘Precisely. Just as we did three years ago.’

      Their deliberations were disrupted by a knock upon the door. It swung open slowly and from behind it appeared the timid-eager face of Anita Chaudury, the Member for one of the Leicester seats and the Prime Minister’s Parliamentary Private Secretary. The ‘Parly Charlie’ was little more than an unpaid parliamentary gofer, a runner of errands, tasks which at times were of such menial standing that in any other profession they might have led to a lawsuit, but she loved every minute of it, from making sure there was enough Frascati in the fridge to keeping her master’s compact available but unobserved. It mattered not a jot to her that she had been chosen for the role solely to prop up the Prime Minister’s credentials on sexism and racism, his ‘double whammie mammie’, as he had been know to refer to her. For Anita it was the first rung on the ladder, the pathway to higher things.

      ‘Excuse me, Jonathan …’ She looked flustered but couldn’t hide the reverence in her voice. ‘I thought you ought to know straight away. It’s Sampson.’

      ‘Who?’

      She took a couple of tentative steps into the room. ‘Sampson. One of our Members in Leeds.’

      Bendall knotted his brow, trying to locate him. ‘So what’s young Sampson gone and done?’

      She coughed. ‘Old Sampson,’ she began, anxious about the necessary correction. ‘I’m afraid he’s gone and died.’ She made it sound as if it were her fault.

      The furrows on the Prime Minister’s brow deepened. ‘I am inconsolable, Anita. What’s his majority?’

      ‘Over ten thousand.’

      ‘A fine man. And a fine legacy. Arrange the usual letters of condolence.’ Bendall was on the point of returning to his business with Vertue when he became aware that she was already clutching a sheaf of letters. ‘Ah, you have them already. Well done. I’ll sign them immediately.’

      She retreated half a pace. ‘No, no, Jonathan, these are … from the public. In response to Gerry Earwick’s letter in the Telegraph about defence cuts. Didn’t go down too well with some of the Old Contemptibles, I’m afraid.’

      Bendall sat back in his chair, contemplating his assistant. ‘Tell me, Anita, what did you think of the letter?’

      Her brown eyes grew large, she thought she had entered heaven. She was in the Cabinet room. Her opinion being sought. On her way. ‘To be frank, I thought it brutal.’

      ‘Absolutely right. Man’s a bloody Tojo.’

      ‘It would have been better, in my opinion,’ she continued, emboldened by his support, ‘to have found some common ground. Conciliated. Extended the hand of understanding.’

      Oh, and that’s where you are absolutely wrong, Bendall concluded silently. Politics is not a game of apologies. It’s war, bloody, at times bestial. No prisoners. If Earwick’s remarks had been a trifle intemperate, they had at least revealed all the brutal instincts required to ward off sharks. A necessary man. Which is why, at the forthcoming reshuffle, he will be getting a promotion. While you, little Anita, will be cast adrift alongside the Employment Secretary. With a big label marked No Longer Needed On Voyage.

      ‘Tell me, Anita, can you swim?’

      ‘N-no,’ she stumbled in surprise.

      ‘Thought not.’ He dismissed her with a wave of his hand.

      ‘The full tide of existence is here,’ Dr Samuel Johnson had once remarked about the crossroads that are now Trafalgar Square, and Goodfellowe was inclined to agree with him, although for the moment the tide seemed to have ground to a halt.

      Goodfellowe had retreated in late afternoon to his flat in Chinatown in order to escape the inevitable demands of the Tea Room. He had both a diet to defend and a backlog of personal correspondence to clear and was behind schedule on both, but now he was scurrying back to Westminster, braving the evening rush hour to make the seven o’clock vote. Except nothing was rushing. As he manoeuvred his bicycle around the queue of cars waiting their turn to enter the square he found his path obstructed, the intersection jammed. From his eyrie, the figure of Nelson presided over a maelstrom of anger and abuse.

      The square had been hijacked.

      Goodfellowe struggled on for a few precious yards, only to find himself in the middle of a demonstration that had been planned with the precision of a Prussian cavalry assault. Several hundred eco-warriors mounted on bicycles had charged upon the enemy’s divisions, taking them by surprise at a time when their manoeuvrability had already been reduced to a rush-hour crawl. Within minutes the bicycles were masters of the field. Their numbers were so great and their presence so dangerously disruptive that the flow of traffic had been forced to slow, then stop completely, the way barred by impenetrable picket lines of bikes. Dozens of policemen were falling upon the square but as soon as one cycle was moved on, another took its place. So what were they supposed to do? Arrest several hundred bikes?

      A young cyclist drew alongside Goodfellowe. ‘Shove it up their exhausts!’ his fellow biker greeted him, clapping him painfully on the shoulder.

      Goodfellowe was inclined to agree, but only up to a point. After all, the good citizens of the rural constituency of Marshwood relied on cars for everything, including delivering his majority on voting day. There were two sides to this one and such moral dilemmas were best considered at leisure, not while rushing to make the Division Bell. He dismounted and attempted to press on through a warcry of car horns, whistles and increasingly angry noises of complaint.

      In front of him a uniformed inspector was shouting into his personal radio, demanding that reinforcements be winkled out of the police canteen at Charing Cross, while nearby a Sky TV news crew had arrived just in time to witness a cyclist moaning in the gutter after being knocked from her bike by a confused motorist. Around the base of the column a group of protesters were unfurling a banner half the length of a football pitch: ‘Save Our Streets!’

      Bedlam.

      It