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M Jackson MacDonald had, however, barred them from investigating the link. Thus,
Eason was being sent in undercover, unbeknownst even to MacDonald.
A short man with hair which was going the way of the Amazonian rainforest
and glasses which were twenty years too young for him, greeted Eason in a small
office, decorated in blue. He was poring over the morning's newspapers; a television
was on in the corner with the sound turned down on the leader of the real
alternative.
Eason took a seat across the desk and waited to be spoken to. Under his
cover he had come highly recommended from a marketing agency in the city, and
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was here to help the Tory party turn things around in the last few days. Eason,
naturally, knew nothing about marketing and had no skills in that direction
whatsoever. Slightly nervous, waiting to be caught out in the first five minutes.
Wasn't a natural undercover cop. His was more of an 'arrest first, investigate later if
you have to, employing violence when required' approach. And he hadn't had
breakfast.
'Look at this,' said the small man. 'Front page of the Sun.'
Eason nodded. Wondered how long it would be before he was able to take a
tea break and grab a doughnut or a bagel.
'Posh Pyjama Drama, for God's sake,' said the little fella, talking at a hundred
miles an hour. 'What the hell is that all about? Serve us much better if they did one
of those equivocal government backing things they do. If they're not going to
support us, the least they could do is slag that lot off when they support them. Tried
to get our man to go out in his pyjamas today, but he went for a suit and tie instead. I
mean, you may think the pyjama thing is mad, but there are others here who want
him to wear a black cape, for God's sake. So what d'you think of the new slogan?'
Eason had been thinking about food.
'What?' he said.
'The new slogan. Taking A Stand on The Issues That Matter. You think it will
resonate with the voters?'
Eason nodded and shook his head. He needed food, and then he needed to
subtly get on with the investigation. The actual undercover part of the scam was just
going to get in the way.
'I know, I know,' said the man. 'It's kind of bland, really bland. The thinking
was to go for something that they couldn't rip the pish out of like the last one. And
he also wanted to echo Churchill, you know. Take a stand and all that. Anyway,
we've decided to go for a rolling programme of slogans over the last week. New one
every couple of days or so.'
'Good idea,' said Eason. 'What's next?'
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'Don't know. That's your job. Straight off the top of your head, give me the
first slogan you can think of.'
Eason stared, a little wide-eyed. The bloke snapped his fingers.
'Now!' he barked.
'Vote Tory and Get More Doughnuts!' said Eason quickly.
The little man stared across the desk at Eason, drumming a curious finger on
the table. He nodded, pursed his lips.
'I don't think it's quite there yet,' he said, 'but it's a good start. Go out there,
find yourself an office, and come up with new slogans. A host of them. You have
carte blanche to free-think and conceptualise.'
'Cool,' said Eason. 'Do I also have carte blanche to go and get breakfast?'
The little man nodded, and then looked back at the papers.
'Certainly,' he mumbled. 'Get me some French toast while you're at it, will
you?'
0956hrs
The PM sat dourly on the train, staring out of the window. At a four-seater table,
with Williams, Barney and Igor. Thackeray had been late getting to the train and so
had had to sit at a table with the Deputy Prime Minister, and was currently being
bored to death by a long story about chicken and leek pie.
'That's the trouble with being PM,' said the PM, 'the trouble with
electioneering. You have to go to Bristol. I mean, should anyone really have to do
that if they don't want to?'
'Arf,' said Igor.
The PM nodded, although he hadn't picked up the nuance inherent in this
particular arf.
'And what's that thing we're going to have to do later, Dan Dan?'
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'Speak to ordinary, real, hardworking people on local radio phone-ins, Prime
Minister,' said Williams. 'It plays great with the electorate.'
The PM exhaled, toyed with his tea which was going cold on the table.
'I know, but really, truly, madly, deeply, do we have to?'
'It'll go down well, Sir,' said Williams. 'Even if you make a mess of it, it won't
cost you anything.'
The PM rolled his eyes.
'It'll end up being more flippin' questions on the Iraq war and the NHS.'
'Hellish when you have to justify yourself,' said Barney, 'isn't it?'
'Arf.'
The PM looked across the table at the two of them.
'Well, yes, frankly, it is.'
He glanced at Williams, looked out the window, contemplated getting into an
argument and defending the invasion of Iraq, but he had to spend too much of his
life doing that without forcing a discussion which he didn't need to have.
'I was wondering,' he began again, the tone of voice indicating a new,
meandering tangent, 'if by some miracle we don't get elected& Might be time for a
career change.'
'Sir?' said Williams.
'They're looking for a new James Bond, aren't they? I could be just the man,
don't you think? Instant name recognition, I'm suave, I have panache, elegance, élan,
verve and a chic style which not many British actors have anymore, yet I also have
the edge of someone who would happily invade a smaller country as long as I knew I
could get away with it.'
He looked around the assembled table, waiting for a reaction.
'Course, I'd need to get my teeth fixed.'
'Excuse me,' said Barney, quickly, and he rose from the table and headed
towards the toilet at the end of the carriage, even though he didn't actually need to
go.
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'We're not going to lose, Sir,' said Williams.
'Arf,' said Igor.
Barney looked over his shoulder, caught Igor's eye, nodded and then turned
and walked from the carriage. Decided against going into some small, vile toilet and
stood at the window of the door, looking out as the countryside of south-west
England rolled by. Ten more days to go. He wasn't a prisoner, and there was nothing
stopping him from jumping ship and going home, but it wasn't long. Almost enjoying
the comfortable life of the big city on a big allowance, and he would appreciate the
solitude and quiet of Millport even more when he returned. He leant against the
door and closed his eyes, enjoying the rhythm of the train, the swaying and the
clatter of the tracks. In its way as peaceful as the rhythm of waves up on the shore, a
sound in which he could lose himself.
'Mr Thomson?'
Barney opened his eyes. Another rude awakening. A train steward dressed in
black trousers and a maroon jacket was standing beside him, hands behind his back.
'I'm all right, thanks,' said Barney. 'I've eaten.'
'The leader of the opposition has been very impressed with the Prime
Minister's hair since you took over hairdressing duties,' said the steward.
Barney stared at the man.
'Excuse me?' he said.
'The Prime Minister's hair,' said the steward. 'We've been very impressed.'
Barney glanced into the carriage, but he was out of sight of the PM and his
entourage.
'I take it you're not really a steward,' said Barney.
'No,' said the Steward. 'I'm with the opposition, tracking the PM's
movements. Nothing sinister, just a bit of low-level surveillance and political
espionage. They do it to us too.'
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'Why are you telling me?' asked Barney, which was a more polite version of
what he wanted to say, which had contained the word 'off' at the end of a short
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