‘Kennedy, you don’t need to be a genius or even particularly good at maths to appreciate that, with forty per cent less money between one year and the next, services are inevitably going to suffer. If I’m making a coat and you take away almost half my material, you can’t expect me to make a coat of the same length and quality.’
‘Well, I’ll leave it for our viewers to decide whether or not your excuses are even remotely valid,’ said Ken directly to the camera.
‘Way to be impartial, Ken.’
‘I’m totally impartial,’ he bristled indignantly.
Damn! This man wasn’t even trying to hide his antagonism towards me. Good! What I needed to do now was make him even angrier.
‘I understand your need to defend the current government.’ I shrugged. ‘After all, your sister was Secretary of State for Education, your brother-in-law is a top civil servant and your daughter Yasmin did a year-long unpaid internship with the Minister of Justice. How lovely that Yasmin can afford to work for an entire year with no pay. I can’t think of many twenty-two-year-olds in Meadowview who could afford to work so long for so little.’
‘We’re not here to talk about my daughter,’ said Ken furiously.
‘True, but, Ken, you did just say you were impartial, which is a blatant lie.’
‘I beg your pardon—’
‘Well, you’re best friends with Felu Farjeon, the Chancellor. Felu has one of the top three jobs in government. How can you be impartial?’
‘Felu and I may be friends, but that has no impact on how I do my job,’ Ken argued.
‘None?’
‘Absolutely none.’
‘So he never tells you how or who to interview?’
‘Of course not,’ Ken dismissed. ‘And, if you don’t mind, this is my show. I ask the questions here.’
I studied Ken, feigning puzzlement. ‘You had lunch with Felu on Wednesday. Are you saying my name wasn’t mentioned throughout your entire meal?’
‘We had better things to talk about than you,’ Ken said, not even attempting to hide his abject contempt.
That was what I was waiting to hear. I pulled my phone out of my jacket pocket and pressed an icon on the screen before laying it down on the table between us. A conversation recorded two days ago immediately began to play.
‘I’m interviewing that jumped-up blanker bastard on Friday. The ex-Mayor of Blanker Town.’
Ken’s voice played out loud and clear. He prided himself on his distinctive tones. Let him try to deny that was him.
‘Tobias Durbridge?’ said a male voice in answer to Ken’s statement.
I turned to the TV camera, addressing the viewers directly. ‘This was recorded two days ago, on Wednesday at lunchtime. The voices you can hear are Ken having lunch with the Chancellor, Felu Farjeon, in case any of you are wondering about the second male voice.’
I turned back to Ken, faux relaxing in my chair. Ken leaned forward to snatch up my phone. I got in first. I held it in my hand, swiping to turn the volume up to its maximum setting.
‘Where did you get that? That’s an illegal recording,’ Ken said furiously.
‘Don’t worry about Durbridge,’ said Felu, his tone overflowing with disdain. ‘By this time next week, his own kind will have voted him out of office. Blankers don’t know a damned thing about loyalty.’
‘Don’t underestimate the stupidity of the public – or Durbridge,’ said Ken. ‘He’s tenacious. The little weasel has had a taste of power now. He won’t give it up easily.’
‘He won’t have any choice. All you need do is hit him with the decline in Meadowview services under his reign. Five years of minimum funding took their toll. Make sure the blame is laid at that blanker’s door and don’t let him try to place it elsewhere.’
‘Well, the blanker has finally agreed to appear on my programme.’ Ken’s laugh was distinctive. ‘Crucifying him is going to be the highlight of my month. Hell, my year! And, when he’s down and can’t get up again, I will shake his hand. I wouldn’t want it to appear that my attack on him is personal.’
As the two of them laughed heartily, I stopped the audio broadcast. That was enough. Ken and I sat in silence, watching each other. He stared at me, his brown eyes sparking with fury. The clapback from this would mean both he and Felu Farjeon would lose their jobs – and we both knew it.
Did I feel sorry for him?
Did I bollocks! I was a master of the deeply satisfying art of not giving a damn.
‘How did you get that recording?’ asked Ken at last.
‘It was emailed to me,’ I replied. ‘The person who sent it signed their email: “a concerned Meadowview citizen”. Maybe it was someone at an adjacent table? Or perhaps a disgruntled waiter or waitress you neglected to tip? But like I said – and as you and your friend the Chancellor of the Exchequer have just confirmed – my budgets were deliberately slashed in an effort to drive me from the political arena. The government might hate my guts, but they had no right to make the people of Meadowview suffer because of it. All I can say is, roll on the general election so that the people of this great country can let the current government know exactly what they think of such tactics.’
Waves of animosity washed over me as Ken stared a hole right through me. I met his animosity with a slight beatific smile. Let the TV viewers see me in all my unthreatening glory. The contrast between Ken and me would be even starker.
The rest of the interview was anticlimactic. Ken continued to ask me questions, which I answered fully and evenly. Once the interview was over, he leaned forward, his hand held out. I looked at it, then at him and shook the proffered sweaty object.
The moment the producer announced we were no longer on the air, I snatched back my hand, making a show of wiping my palm on my trouser leg.
‘You son of a bitch!’ Ken announced.
I leaned forward, one hand over the radio mic on my jacket lapel, and said for his ears only, ‘Do unto others as they would do unto you, only do it first.’
‘You’ll pay for this.’ Ken’s dark brown eyes were almost black with rage, his face set in an ugly snarl.
‘Now, Ken, should I turn on my camera phone and record this too? I’d be more than happy to put it on my website.’
‘Fuck you, Durbridge.’
I took out my phone and held it up between Ken and me. ‘Could you repeat that, please?’
‘Fuck. You. Durbridge,’ Ken obliged.
What an arse!
One of the many satisfying things about power was seeing the bodies of your enemies float by on the river of life while you watched from the bank, eating popcorn.
‘And a merry Crossmas to you too,’ I replied, even though we were only a few months into the new year.
Switching off my phone, I removed my radio mic and headed off the set. There, waiting for me, was Dan Jeavons – my campaign manager, chief backer and friend of old. Next to him was his second in command, Jarvis Burton. Jarvis, a particularly nasty piece of work, wore his wavy brown hair styled in a top plait with buzz-cut sides, military style. He looked every centimetre the hard man he was. Dan took particular delight in telling me some of the things Jarvis had done on his behalf. Tales to frighten children and adults alike. Dan had chosen his lieutenant well. Jarvis didn’t say much, but he didn’t miss a thing, and I had it on good authority that he was not just vicious but ruthless when crossed.