Deception E-Book

Roger White

• Herausgeber: Cinnamon Press
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 408

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

In an embattled world can integrity trump corruption? Hungover and tired after a month doing business in Tirana, and needing to lie low following a threat to his life, Nicholas Wyndham assumes the identity on a placard held up in the arrivals hall at Heathrow. This chance-act, with its ensuing web of deceit, ensnares not only Nicholas, but also Natasha, the young activist who meets him at the airport, and all those around them—with life-changing consequences. Moving across England, Wales, Albania and Denmark, and set against the backdrop of the British General Election of 1997, and the public desire to replace a government beset by allegations of sleaze and incompetence with a fresh and optimistic administration, Deception is a timely exploration of what we mean by power, class, corruption, identity and truth. A compelling story of the potential of the human spirit.

Leseprobe

Contents

Title Page

Copyright

About the Author

Half Title

Prologue: London, Tuesday January 17th, 2023

Lightning strikes: Wednesday afternoon April 30th, 1997

Destination unknown: Wednesday evening April 30th, 1997

Leigh Delamere: Wednesday night April 30th, 1997

The lie of the land: Thursday morning May 1st, 1997

Leigh Delamere: Thursday evening May 1st, 1997

Election Fever: Thursday night May 1st, 1997

Caerdyffryn College: Friday May 2nd, 1997

Chance encounters: Friday May 2nd, 1997

The welcome party: Friday evening May 2nd, 1997

Natasha’s nemesis: Friday night May 2nd, 1997

Nick’s nemesis: Friday night May 2nd, 1997

Strata Florida: Saturday early-morning May 3rd, 1997

Caerdyffryn: Saturday morning May 3rd, 1997

Aberystwyth: Saturday afternoon May 3rd, 1997

Caerdyffryn: Saturday late-afternoon May 3rd, 1997

Caerdyffryn: Saturday night May 3rd, 1997

Caerdyffryn: Thursday May 8th, 1997

Caerdyffryn: Friday May 16th, 1997

London: Monday June 9th, 1997

London to Carmarthen: Monday June 9th, 1997

Carmarthen: Monday June 9th, 1997

Corfu to Sarande: Friday June 20th, 1997

Sarande: Friday afternoon June 19th, 1997

Gjirokaster: Friday night June 20th, 1997

Gjirokaster: Midsummers Day, 1997

Epilogue: London, Thursday May 2nd, 2024

Deception

Roger White

Published by Leaf by Leaf an imprint of Cinnamon Press,

Office 49019, PO Box 15113, Birmingham, B2 2NJ

www.cinnamonpress.com

The right of Roger White  to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patent Act, 1988. © 2024, Roger White.

Print Edition ISBN 978-1-78864-991-9

Ebook Edition ISBN 978-1-78864-880-6

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data. A CIP record for this book can be obtained from the British Library.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior written permission of the publishers. This book may not be lent, hired out, resold or otherwise disposed of by way of trade in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, without the prior consent of the publishers.

Designed and typeset by Cinnamon Press.

Cover design by Adam Craig © Adam Craig.

Cinnamon Press is represented by Inpress.

About the Author

After completing a Chemistry degree at the University of York, Roger went into the field of education. A keen interest in the interface of science, creative arts and politics is reflected in a number of seminal educational books, including In and Out of School (with Dave Brockington), The School of Tomorrow, and The ASDAN Story, plus a regular newspaper column since 2010. Roger is married, with three grown-up children, and lives and works in Bristol. Degrees of Separation was his first published novel.

Deception

Prologue: London

Tuesday January 17th, 2023

Olivia Skala pushed open the door to the editor’s office.

“Take a seat, Ollie. Sorry to drag you in, but better dealt with in person.”

Olivia frowned. Was something wrong with her Covid enquiry piece?

“Don’t worry. I just want to show you a video clip.” The editor tapped his phone. “Have a look at this Facebook post of our immigration minister addressing workers at a deportation centre yesterday.” 

A smile creased the well-fed features beneath the spectacles. “I’ve been meeting the fantastic staff working round the clock to find these Albanians, detain them, put them on coaches, take them to the airport and get them back to Tirana.”

“Uncompromising as always.” Olivia handed back the phone.

“Yes, he circulated it just before a repatriation flight to Tirana. It’s created a bit of a storm. The Albanian foreign ministry has protested about his verbal lynching of a whole nation, using language laced with hatred and discrimination.”

“Fair comment.” Olivia twisted a lock of hair behind her ear. “The Conservatives have got plenty of form on that front. Reminds me of Cameron’s reference to swarms of migrants, just before the two-year-old Syrian boy washed up on Bodrum beach.” 

The editor nodded. “And the Brexit claim of 77 million Turks heading for the UK. The Tories are masters of dog-whistle politics. But this clip follows on from the row created by the Home Secretary before Christmas, when she referred to Albanians as criminals, and rubbished claims of women being trafficked.”

“Seems coordinated.”

“We need a piece to explain what is happening. Twelve thousand Albanians crossed the Channel last year, a quarter of all the people in small boats.” 

Her eyes narrowed. “Convenient scapegoats.”

“I want to know what’s behind this. We’ll run it as a feature in the supplement. Something balanced and informed.” The editor looked directly at Olivia. “Two weeks enough time?”

The journalist pursed her lips. “I’m starting from a low base. I know Albania is across the Adriatic from Italy and I remember my parents describing it as the poorest country in Europe.”

“True, but it’s a NATO member applying to join the EU. Ally not enemy. Look up Armando Broja and Rita Ora if you want success stories.”

Ollie smiled. “I’m young enough to have heard ‘Not Right Now’ at Glastonbury. I’ll give it my best shot.”

Lightning strikes

Wednesday afternoon April 30th, 1997

“Ladies and gentlemen, we are expecting turbulence.” The voice on the intercom carried no emotion. “Please ensure your seat belt is securely fastened.”

Nicholas pushed the magazine into the seat pocket and looked through the window at the Thames’ snaking luminescence. The towers of Canary Wharf vanished beneath the starboard wing and St. Paul’s dome came into view. Somewhere, beneath the scudding clouds, lay his flat and a gathering of dust. As his eyes tracked along the Embankment, searching for Big Ben, an electric-blue cloak enveloped the plane, and an explosive crack hammered the fuselage. The cabin lights went out. Behind him a child started to cry.

The port wing tipped towards the inky green of Richmond Park, before the plane lurched up, pressing Nicholas into his seat. Cabin lights flickered above the stewardess making her way along the aisle. From the unlined cheeks tinged with makeup he guessed she was early twenties. He registered the finely-cut blue tunic, the tapered skirt, and the embroidered silk scarf round her neck. Her brown eyes were empty of expression. The plane dived again and she reached to steady herself against the seat in front.

Nicholas stared at the wingtip, winking its green reassurance as it shuddered against the skyline. Unbidden, an image surfaced of a school science experiment, bending the lid of a can backwards and forwards till the metal broke. Had aeronautical engineers worked out how many oscillations joints could bear before shearing off? What if calculations were wrong? Or the wing was a Friday job, welded to the fuselage by mechanics in Toulouse keen to get away for le weekend? Would the metal snap in an instant, or would a slowly developing fracture allow the plane to limp to land? 

He was aware of the damp arm rests. What would it feel like to nosedive beneath the grey shroud, trees scouring the corpse of the limbless fuselage? More brutal than a car smashing into a motorway bridge? Would consciousness be extinguished instantly, or a sequence of freeze-frames collapse into a void? 

There was silence in the 737. Nicholas sensed the concentration, willing the pilot towards a successful landing. It wasn’t enough. The aircraft was lifted by an unseen hand and tipped sideways. The stewardess lost her balance and toppled into the empty seat across the aisle. Lights went out again and the air conditioning hissed into the late afternoon gloom. Nicholas vowed to travel by train in future. It was too soon to write his obituary.

“Nicholas Soames Wyndham. Born 29th February 1960. Educated at Symonds Preparatory, Melchester College, and Gonville and Caius. Joined Deacon’s Merchant Bank. Married Annabel Seaton in 1992. No children. Consultant to Bedrock Solutions at 37.” 

Annabel might add a reference to their divorce, but there would be no mention of Elvana. Too recent. Nicholas touched the bandage round his left hand—a visible reminder of the month spent in Albania, together with the contents of the holdall above. He glanced along the aisle, wondering if he’d been followed through the transit lounge at Vienna. Elvana might have made good on her threat.

The aircraft hung for a moment, right wing tilting towards the curve of the river, then dropped through an air pocket. The bald head in front banged the luggage compartment and Nicholas felt the seat belt pressing his abdomen. He closed his eyes.

Starbucks on the Strand in the shadow of St. Clement Danes, with the Spice Girls and Boyzone playing in a loop on the speakers.

Annabel wanting to move to the country. Have a baby.

It was not the time. Later, maybe.

Mascara streaking her laughter lines.

The door to the Strand pushed open.

‘For Sale’ appearing outside the terraced house in Balham.

Waking on Valentine’s Day in the Battersea apartment among a pile of boxes and dust sheets.

The plane steadied, easing the buckle, as the lights came on. Through the window, the buildings beside the river seemed very close. The intercom buzzed.

“Captain Brandt speaking.” The voice sounded like Arnold Schwarzenegger. “Everything is okay. We have passed through the worst of the thunderstorm, but we must gain more altitude for the flight path to Heathrow. It will take a few minutes to have you safely on the ground. Please be patient.” The pilot’s words soothed the atmosphere in the cabin. Across the aisle the stewardess unclipped her belt. A smile was fixed above her starched collar as she stood in the gangway.

The landing in Tirana four weeks earlier had not been straightforward either.

***

The crackling voice over the intercom announced a flock of sheep had broken through the perimeter fence to graze beside the runway.

In the adjacent seat, the secretary of the Albanian Swimming Federation reassured him it was a common occurrence. Uncut, lush grass was a powerful magnet for hungry animals. “We are no different to them. This is a poor country and we have only just discovered capitalism. There is a long way to go.” The thick neck tightened beneath the determined jawline. Nicholas imagined the man thrusting his shaved head towards the finish of the breaststroke.

“Are things improving?” Through the perspex, Nicholas watched three figures herding a nomadic pattern of white dots from the grey tarmac.

“Wages are low; but we are embracing the free market.”

“How’s that going?”

“We need to taste it to know.” Nicholas smelt the garlic.

He came down the steps into the dry afternoon warmth. The terminal stood in front of dusty palm trees marking the airfield boundary, with Tirane in faded red letters above its steel doors. In the distance Nicholas saw the northern Albanian Alps, which they had flown over from Austria. The languid, Mediterranean heat contrasted with the grey drizzle blanketing Vienna. Sitting on a low stone wall in the sunshine, waiting for the crowd to move through the entrance to the arrival hall, he watched a luggage trailer disgorge a mound of suitcases at the far end of the building, close to two uniformed men carrying Kalashnikovs. He closed his eyes, feeling the sun caress his lids, breathing the fragrance of wallflowers that squeezed through cracks in the rough concrete.

When he next looked at the metal doors, the crush of bodies had evaporated. He stood up, brushing his feet against the red and yellow flames, releasing a cloud of scent into the sultry air. Nicholas walked into the oppressive heat of the crowded hall. Grimy windows trapped the sun’s rays and the only working fan in the row of five was rotating so slowly it barely created a ripple in the fetid atmosphere. The smell of burnt coffee filtered from an invisible percolator. At the front of the queue an American was asserting his right of entry as a member of the Brotherhood of God, undertaking relief work in the north of Albania.

Thirty minutes later it was Nicholas’ turn to confront the unwavering gaze of the couple behind the glass screen. They were dressed in battleship-grey jackets, with red-striped epaulettes, heat and dust etched into their faces. He handed over his passport. Ochre-brown eyes stared through him as the woman held up five fingers. “Dollaaaghs.” The emphasis was on the second syllable.

Nicholas slipped the crumpled greenback beneath the glass, and she muttered to her colleague. The man’s hand rose and fell, stamping a blank page in the passport. ‘Republika E Shqiperise. Hyrie 01.04.97’.

Nicholas was waved through. Beyond the line of suitcases from the plane, a man in a Manchester United shirt was holding up a handwritten sheet of paper. His face resembled the brown crags they’d crossed from Vienna, smoke curling from the cigarette between clenched lips.

MR WYNDHAM

BEDSOCK SOLUTIONS

Nicholas smiled and reached out his hand.

The man spat the smoking butt on the ground and pressed a finger to his chest. “Besnico. No Anglisht.” His grin revealed stained teeth. “Car outside. Come.”

Nicholas followed Besnico, surrounded by children eager to carry his suitcase. “Dollaaagh… dollaaagh… dollaaagh.” Their cries resonated through the window of the Alfa Romeo. Besnico started the engine, but they were hemmed in by another vehicle. The Albanian leant on the horn, which had no effect on the driver in front, or the children scrabbling at the passenger door. Nicholas lifted another greenback to the half-open window, and it was grabbed by a girl in a mud-streaked vest.

Besnico barked a single word and waved the children away, as he manoeuvred round the obstructing vehicle, shouting at the driver now standing beside his car, staring at a flat tyre. The terminal building disappeared behind palm trees, and they turned onto the road to Tirana. A flock of sheep and a solitary cow grazed the verge, watched over by a barefoot girl spinning wool from a distaff. In the distance a line of men hacked the earth with mattocks. Across the sloping hillside, lines of white pillboxes were sown in the baked red ground.

The road curved past a crumbling farmhouse where two figures sat wrapped in black shawls on the porch. Nicholas registered the metre-high red letters sprayed across the cracked mortar of the end wall.

SHITET

Below each letter, paint had dripped down the cement like a trail of blood.

***

Nicholas opened his eyes to see rain sliding in horizontal rivulets across the window. London had disappeared beneath a grey blanket. The plane seemed to be hanging in a twilight nether world. He thought of James waving him off at Tirana airport after Besnico had sped there from the hotel, holdall wedged between them on the back seat. What might James add to the obituary?

‘Enjoys the exercise of raising a pint glass to his lips; finds it hard to walk past a casino after a night’s boozing even though he knows the inverse relationship between levels of inebriation and success at the table; possesses a capacity to find something funny in the most miserable situations, such as being banged-up in a Hungarian jail for pouring blue dye into the Danube after a party in Buda; uses his height to unfair advantage when watching a striptease in a crowded lap-dancing club; has a voice that one girlfriend described as perfect for seduction’.

Nicholas recalled this was the same woman who had referred to his friend as a morality-free zone, which was true but failed to acknowledge how much fun he was to have around. They’d met on the organising committee for the college May Ball. The whisper on his staircase was of good money to be made, if you found the right sources for food and drink and could cut a deal with the entertainment. Each of them had pocketed over a grand.

At five-foot six, James had a bumptious energy that compensated for his lack of inches, an ability to laugh at his own jokes like he was hearing them for the first time, and a voice that rasped vowels like a cheese grater. After graduating from Cambridge, James used his fluent French and father’s contacts in the diplomatic service to ensure an income, despite never filling in a job application. For Nicholas, working his way up the management layers of Deacon’s, James provided the colourful edge to a routine commute between his Battersea apartment and the City. He’d phone to invite Nicholas to a weekend party in some corner of Europe, or give a few minutes’ warning he was at Heathrow and needed a bed. Occasionally he was accompanied by a girl from Eastern Europe.

All this ended when Nicholas met Annabel at a conference in Threadneedle Street. She was head of public relations for a firm of financial advisers. They were married within six months and bought a small turn-of-the-century, terraced house in Walpole Road, two streets from Balham underground station. Nicholas put his Battersea flat in the hands of a letting agent, and James took to using the Strand Palace for his visits to London. The two men continued to meet whenever James was in town, but Nicholas knew it irritated Annabel, so he glossed over the detail of why he was sometimes late from work. There seemed no point generating unnecessary dissonance, especially as James’ visits to London became less frequent once he took the job with Bedrock.

Nicholas envied his friend’s lifestyle but drew consolation from seeing the toll on his body. James’ hair was thinning above the low forehead, and the boyish lips, that had been described as sensual at university, were now thickening between a pair of reddening cheeks. He owned an electric razor designed to leave a five o’clock shadow, claiming this made him more attractive, although Nicholas never saw evidence to support this. None of James’ relationships lasted longer than a couple of weeks.

When James dangled the Balkan project, it wasn’t only the money tempting Nicholas. The descriptions of Albania in Pettifer’s Blue Guide made the 7.10 from Battersea to the City humdrum. Having been at the bank fifteen years, he knew people approaching retirement who had worked in the same building all their lives. He was a section head, with the bonus of quarterly trips to their sister bank in New York on the top floor of the North Tower. Yet these transatlantic visits felt predictable, with limited variations on a theme that revolved around restaurants and night clubs. Often, he drank too much to recall the evening’s activities. Perfecting his American accent for Annabel, who had a penchant for the vowels of the Eastern seaboard after a few glasses of Saint Émilion, was small consolation for a work routine that was becoming monotonous.

Nicholas reached for the magazine in the seat pocket. As he flicked over the cover, his bandaged hand knocked the arm rest, and the stab of pain reminded him of Elvana’s parting act. Had she had time to make good on her promise? He scanned the rows of seats towards the back of the aircraft, catching the eye of a man at the end. He recognised the face from the queue in Tirana.

There was a jolt, a bump and the engine noise increased to a roar as the aircraft braked to turn off the runway, pressing him forward against the seat buckle. Tension evaporated like spilt petrol on hot metal. The cabin erupted in applause. Clacking belts obscured the intercom request to remain securely fastened till the aircraft came to a complete stop. The pilot cut the engines and the motley-dressed chorus-line rose from their seats, squeezing into the aisle.

Nicholas stayed seated. Best to be last off. He studied the queuing passengers, wondering whether his weariness was simply the inevitable aftermath of a month boozing, or from the final showdown with Elvana. A Glenmorangie might do the trick. Once the crush of bodies moved along the gangway, he stretched and stood up, conscious of a bitterness in his mouth and the smell of sweat in the cabin. Drawing himself to his full six-foot two, he could see his face in the mirror on the bulkhead, above the heads of other passengers.

His thick black hair swept back from a firm-boned brow, whose unlined sheen accentuated an impression he knew some read as arrogance. The bushy eyebrows came close to merging in the indent above the Roman nose, adding to a top-heavy appearance, accentuated by large ears that had once earned him the nickname Batty. Since liberation from the reign of short back and sides at Melchester, he made sure his hair was long enough to cover the tips of his ears.

Not for the first time Nicholas wondered if he’d look more balanced with a beard, but he knew women admired the strength of a determined jaw. There would be time enough when the crease underneath his chin became more pronounced. Despite membership of Fitness First, there was truth in James’ assertion about his preferred form of exercise. The skin below his brown eyes was bagging up, and his tailor had expanded the waistline for his latest suit, ignoring protestations that he should still be a thirty-two.

“It’s only time to worry when your measurement exceeds the inside leg.” Sylvio’s hand stroked his thigh. “Fine muscles, sir. You’re nicely balanced at thirty-four.” 

Bodies moved slowly along the aisle and Nicholas waited for the man from Tirana to pass, before he lifted down the holdall and followed the other passengers into the terminal building. The first pieces of baggage were dropping onto the belt, so he ducked into the toilet and waited in a cubicle for fifteen minutes before re-emerging. There were only two articles left on the belt. Nicholas collected his maroon suitcase, looking round to see who was waiting to claim the violin case, but the area around the belt was deserted.

He walked slowly towards the green exit, mulling over the choices. It would be unwise to go to his flat. Elvana could have passed on the address. He didn’t fancy meeting a hostile reception committee. He could head for Spearmint Rhino, where he’d likely find a friend to share a table for the floorshow. But that would only defer a decision till the small hours. He just needed to disappear and lie low a while. The glass doors swished open, and he walked beside the rope barrier, past the sea of agency representatives holding up signs to usher VIPs into London. His attention was drawn to a young woman scanning the faces of passengers coming through. Her loose cotton blouse was tie-dyed with rainbow colours, reminding him of hippy festivals. Her knee-length skirt swirled above green leather boots as she swivelled to check she’d not missed anyone. She held a cream card, with a name printed in black letters.

EVERETT SCHREIBER

OHIO

Nicholas hesitated. An embroidered scarf gathered the blonde hair behind her ears, exposing her face and neck. Her eyes caught his. She glanced away and then back, looking at him intently.

Nicholas stepped forward, arm outstretched. “Hi, I’m Everett Schreiber.” His New Hampshire accent was polished. “Thanks for meeting me.”

Destination unknown

Wednesday evening April 30th, 1997

By the time the silver Audi joined the queue of traffic to Heathrow’s underpass, Nicholas knew her name was Natasha, that she’d grown up in Yorkshire, inter-railed in Europe to watch the sun rise over the Acropolis and the dancing wraiths of the Aurora at midnight in Troms, before reading Psychology at Warwick university—but never visited America. She had nearly given up waiting at the point he stepped forward.

He'd had time to study her as the driver put his luggage into the boot. She was five-foot seven or eight. Below a high forehead her blue eyes were keen and watchful, and he wondered if the flaxen hair hinted at Scandinavian ancestry. With her profile, he imagined her on the prow of a Viking ship, breasting the swell of the North Sea. Silver earrings brushed the edge of her silk headscarf. There was no trace of makeup.

Natasha was sitting beside him on the back seat, twisting the silver bracelet on her wrist. In front the driver was humming to the radio. Nicholas registered the neatly-shaved hairline above the man’s wide ears and muscular neck. Natasha had introduced him as Samson. Was that a nickname? He judged him to be mid-fifties when he’d watched him stow the bags.

The car accelerated towards the motorway and Natasha adjusted her seatbelt. “I thought I’d missed you, because the six thirty from Kennedy landed earlier than scheduled. Were you held up for ages in customs?” The vowel in ‘up’ sounded more like ‘book’.

“Mine was the last suitcase on the carousel.” Nicholas ran his fingers through his hair, flattening the black spikes that had ruffled as they’d walked to the car park. His hand brushed his cheek, and he caught the antiseptic smell on the lint bandage. At least he was leaving behind the duplicitous world that had cost him a pint of blood.

Nicholas was conscious of a heady exhilaration, blowing away the cloud of ennui that had settled after landing. It was the high of the blackjack table, all to play for and all to lose. He must have pitched the accent correctly, but who was Schreiber? And where were they going—and what for? A celebrity function in a smart London hotel would be pretty good. Certainly better than meeting anyone Elvana might have sent after him.

Nicholas wondered if Natasha expected him to hand something over. Was that the point of the question about customs? He mused about the street value of a suitcase of cocaine. He glanced at her. She didn’t seem like a gangster’s moll. But she didn’t seem dressed for a celebrity event either.

Blue eyes returned his gaze. “You’re younger than I expected.”

“Sorry to disappoint.” Nicholas continued to stretch his accent.

“Having read your books, I assumed you’d be a grey-haired professor with spectacles.” Her fingers played with the ends of her scarf.

Nicholas hesitated, grateful for the enlightening cards flying across the green baize of the gaming table. He framed his response carefully. “Intellectual exercise with young minds keeps you on your toes—especially if the students are basketball players!” He caught the hint of a smile. In front, Samson was tapping his fingers on the steering wheel in time to the saxophone. He flicked the indicator and Nicholas noticed the car heading down the westbound carriageway of the motorway.

Natasha turned; fine cheekbones lit by the sinking sun breaking through rain clouds. “I found Rude Boys inspirational. Better than anything else I’ve read on the subject.” 

Nicholas said nothing. Was she talking about pornography? Some gay icon perhaps? The seat belt pressed against her chest, accentuating the contours beneath a patterned blouse.

“I was surprised at the parallels you drew with the UK, because I thought American and British school experiences were poles apart.” Natasha paused, and it seemed to Nicholas she was pondering her own observation. “Have you worked in both countries?”

Nicholas chose his words. “I taught at Cambridge for a while…” 

The eight o’clock pips interrupted the conversation.

“On the last day of the campaign, John Major has returned to his Huntingdon constituency and Tony Blair to Sedgefield. Both leaders have spent the final twenty-four hours on a whistlestop tour of key marginals. Pollsters are predicting a high turnout will sweep the Labour Party back into power after eighteen years in the wilderness…”

The radio announcement and protective dusk gave Nicholas time to gather his thoughts. Professor of Education then? He dredged through his recollections of educational policy since leaving school. The government had changed in his first year at university. Some bloke with two first names had taken charge of schools. There was a lot of fuss about a national curriculum and tests, and helping poor children into public schools. He registered a change of voice on the radio. The broadcaster was interviewing a leading minister in the Conservative cabinet.

“I hope the bastards are ground into extinction.” Natasha’s interjection startled Nicholas, who’d never taken politics seriously enough to trigger an emotional reaction. Every election since he was eighteen had simply been an opportunity to make money. He’d bet half his term’s grant on Thatcher in May 1979 and won three hundred pounds, which he blew the following night at Delancey’s. He’d repeated the success four years later, although the odds were shorter because of the Falklands’ victory. 1992 had seen the biggest scoop. He’d placed three grand the day before the election, when the odds against Major had lengthened to 4-1. Twelve hours later, after Kinnock’s performance in Sheffield, it had shifted back to 5-4.

Together with James and Csilla, and her friend Zsuzsanna, they’d worked through a box of Fosters, watching Peter Snow’s excitement match the movement of his swingometer. At the point the Conservatives secured a majority, Nicholas staggered to the all-night off-licence on the Wandsworth Road and returned with two magnums of Moet. Although the bottles had set him back a hundred quid, by the time they’d sprayed the girls, he didn’t care. The taste of champagne was as sweet as the thought of the scoop at the bookies.

“It’s a last chance to rekindle hope for a fairer society.” Natasha shifted on the seat, and he caught a trace of perfume. The deep well of blackness in the centre of her eyes shone with the intensity of conviction. “Do you think we could repair the rot from decades of Tory neglect?” 

Nicholas hesitated, knowing he’d put ten thousand at 3-1 on another Major victory before flying to Tirana. How might Professor Schreiber respond? He remembered the posters from the Conservative campaign the year he’d placed his first bet, depicting the rubbish in the streets and the line of depressed characters in the dole queue. ‘Labour isn’t working.’ That image had persuaded him to back the Tories. Nicholas struggled to understand how any sane person could support a political party that wanted to increase taxes for people working their socks off, while subsidising scroungers on council estates and building extra nurseries for their feral kids. Labour’s plans for a minimum wage and national insurance would bankrupt employers, alongside commitments to spend billions on hospitals and schools for losers who couldn’t be bothered to save for private provision. 

Natasha clearly believed the socialist claptrap. Was Schreiber giving support to a group of subversives in England? Nicholas weighed his words. “Sometimes I wonder whether governments make much difference.”

“But who could want these shysters in office for another moment?” Natasha was insistent. “So much damage, deceit, corruption. Cash for questions was just the iceberg. They deserve a month in the stocks before exile to Rockall. Or maybe somewhere more secure abroad. Could you reopen Alcatraz?” Her nostrils flared.

“I agree about corruption being rife.” Nicholas was relieved that Natasha didn’t respond with another tirade. He noticed her left hand slowly turning the bracelet. There was no ring on the index finger. In the silence Nicholas wondered again where they were going. Maybe there was an Irish connection, and they were heading towards the ferry ports in Wales? That would make sure the Albanian trail went cold. “How long to go?” 

Natasha pursed her lips, allowing the lock of hair to fall onto her shoulder. “Could be three or four hours, depending on traffic once we’re over the bridge.” 

Nicholas presumed she meant the Severn as they were passing signs to Reading. Samson was doing a steady eighty down the middle lane. Fishguard would fit with that sort of timescale. Of course, whenever they stopped, he could vanish into the gloom of a wet evening, although judging by the thick-veined neck of the driver, it might be tricky to extract the bags from the boot.

He pushed the thoughts to one side. It could yet be a VIP reception. A hotel in Swansea tonight and an event in the morning? To ward off further discussion about politics, he took the initiative with questions to Natasha.

Before Membury Services he knew she was twenty-seven, had grown up in Hebden Bridge as an only child, and completed her A levels at the local comprehensive. After an extended gap-year that had taken her round Australia and Asia, she’d ended up working in an orphanage in Sri Lanka. Nicholas didn’t ask about her current job, because he presumed Schreiber would know this, but he did elicit that she sang in a choir, went skydiving and took part in salsa-dancing competitions, although she seemed strangely reluctant to give details.

Half a mile past the turn-off to Cirencester, Nicholas felt a metallic clunk. Something had kicked the underbelly of the Audi. It was followed by a squealing that increased in frequency till it hurt his ears. Samson cursed and swerved onto the hard shoulder. The car came to a juddering halt. The driver lifted the bonnet, then crouched underneath the vehicle. A minute later his broad frame loomed beside the back door. Natasha wound down the window.

“Bloody transmission’s knackered.” Nicholas struggled to adjust his ear to the Tyneside accent. “Couldn’t pull the skin off a rice pudding. I’ll have to call the RAC. You best stay here.” 

He watched Samson stride along the hard shoulder towards the phone. He sensed Natasha’s mounting irritation as her fingers tied and untied the scarf round her neck. She pulled open the door. Traffic roar blasted the silence.

“I need a wee. I’ll go up there.” She pointed to the line of bushes atop the embankment.

The door slammed and Nicholas was alone. Was this the moment to retrieve the holdall and disappear? His eyes followed Natasha as she climbed the incline. He was rather enjoying the drama. Maybe he could stick with it a while longer. Oncoming vehicles illuminated the inside of the car, like a dimmer switch turning up and down. The driver of the patrol vehicle confirmed Samson’s diagnosis and phoned for a relay wagon. When the pickup arrived, he heard Natasha instruct the driver to drop them at the next services and deliver the car to Chippenham.

Nicholas placed his suitcase on the wooden stand next to the television table and surveyed the room. It had been several years since he’d spent a night on a motorway, but the layout was familiar enough. He ran a shower and let the fine needle-spray caress his skin, then wrapped a towel round his waist and lay on the bed, pondering his options. It seemed a lifetime ago since he’d shared a farewell drink with James before the taxi to Tirana airport. The digital clock on the television showed 22.53. He wanted to close his eyes but knew he needed to work out the next step.

He was on borrowed time. The real Schreiber must be somewhere. What if he’d come through customs soon after they’d left the car park and a second vehicle was now on the motorway? Surely Natasha would know, though? She’d made a phone call from the booth in reception after they’d checked into the Travelodge. As he waited by the door to the bedrooms, he heard her explain to someone called Stephen that they’d broken down and were stopping overnight. He watched her replace the receiver, giving no indication anything was wrong. He could slip away early tomorrow and get a taxi to the nearest railway station. Even if he didn’t go back to his flat, there were friends’ places where he could hide away for a week or so. 

Nicholas stretched his limbs on the double bed, wondering about the route map for someone who’d pursued an academic career. He’d known one friend at Cambridge who had secured a readership at Essex University. They’d lost touch after a few years, partly because the earnings differential made it impossible for Tariq to match the lifestyle of a merchant banker, but also because their interests diverged. Tariq became increasingly political, and their meetings ended in arguments, with Nicholas wrong-footed by the evidence Tariq could marshal. Thanks to this experience he knew enough to play the part of a radical academic and found the thought of donning a professorial mantle exhilarating. Natasha was tricky though. Her political views reminded him of the loony left he’d met at university, yet her feisty naiveté was engaging. 

As she climbed into the cabin of the relay wagon, he couldn’t help noticing the skirt riding up above her boots. James’ words echoed in his head. “Can’t resist an opportunity, even if it stacks up problems.” His friend was a fine one to talk, but that was exactly what had happened with Elvana the first night in Tirana. The ‘welcome party’ had been a thinly disguised excuse for James to make sure everyone understood the importance of playing according to his rules. Alcohol flowed and there were plenty of local girls to break the ice, in addition to Elvana Laska, the interpreter.

***

“Striking, isn’t she? Different class to the girls Vasil arranged.” Elvana’s finely-tailored suit and the faintest touch of makeup set her apart from the other Albanian girls in their short skirts and red lipstick. James stood at the urinal next to Nicholas in the bowels of the hotel. Twisted cigarette stubs swirled in the amber liquid as the cistern made a half-hearted attempt to flush. Nicholas wrinkled his nose and watched his friend shake against the porcelain, registering that ‘small man, large cock’ didn’t apply to James. “Looking for a bit of English charm, Nicko? If you don’t go for it, mate, I’ll be elbowing you out the way.” 

Dancing had continued till two in the crumbling, cavernous ballroom of the Hotel Dajti. Leaving the band to pack their instruments, the guests climbed the yawning staircase to the main lobby. Smoke spiralled from leather-backed armchairs, curling across the ten-foot canvas of Skanderbeg astride his horse that dominated the hotel entrance. Nicholas recalled the Blue Guide’s account of the Albanian Braveheart’s victories over the Ottoman armies. Thick black coffee was being poured in anterooms, and whispered conversations harked back to a previous era, where intrigue and secrecy were handmaidens to Albanian discourse.

Nicholas looked round for James but guessed his friend had found the girl he was smooching more interesting than the verbal intercourse in the lobby. He stood with Elvana outside the hotel, waiting for Besnico to fetch the Alfa Romeo, breathing in the heady scents from the avocado-skinned darkness and listening to the whirring cicadas. He studied the profile of the woman staring through the cypress trees at the darkened city, registering the curved nose, the tightness to her lips, and the leathered cheek with its dusting of moonscape patterns, all conveying a toughness. Her scarlet shawl had slipped down her shoulders.

“Tirana looks better at night.” Elvana spoke softly. Her fingers swivelled the gold ring on her left hand. “Much was destroyed in the uprising. As a matter of fact, once the statues of Hoxha were pulled, the people pointed their anger at anything to do with the Party, like the schools and the hospitals and the offices. Now we are nothing but the ruins, with Albania called a failed state.” 

She turned to face Nicholas, her eyes reflecting the moonlight. “Did you see Shitet on the buildings from Rinas airport?”

Nicholas recalled the dripping blood on the porch of the crumbling farmhouse.

"It means ‘For Sale’, which is true of everything now we have discovered free market. During Hoxha everyone had enough to eat and place to live. Water poured. No one drove a car, except a few in the Party.” The brown eyes glistened. “Today we have the beggars, traffic jams in Tirana, and no water. As a matter of fact, ninety percent of young people want to leave. For them the whole of Albania is Shitet.”

***

Nicholas stared up at the irregular, circular patterns on the Travelodge ceiling, reflecting how he’d come to understand what Elvana had meant in the month that followed that first meeting. Everything had its price, including integrity. The contents of the holdall had been some compensation for her act of retribution. His eyes flickered to the open suitcase on the stand, and he realised he’d left the bag in the boot of the Audi.

How could he have been so stupid? 

He breathed deeply, trying to control the panic. The car had been taken to a garage in Chippenham, so there was no way of disappearing at first light. Maybe he could come up with a reason for going there tomorrow? Meanwhile, he would have to stay cool and play the long game.

A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts. Natasha was holding a bottle of wine. “Picked this up in the services. Samson has turned in, but I thought you might be interested to watch the pre-election coverage.” She smiled. “A chance to catch up on British politics?”

Nicholas was standing in the open doorway with a towel round his midriff. Two men came along the corridor and Natasha stepped into his room to let them pass. The nearest man winked at Nicholas, who tightened his grip on the white cotton. “I’ll come in a few minutes.” 

There was a snigger from the end of the passageway.

Leigh Delamere

Wednesday night April 30th, 1997

Back in her room Natasha unscrewed the cap on the wine bottle and sat on the edge of the bed, trying to make sense of what was happening. In a few minutes time she would be together with the man whose writing had changed her life. It had all started on the teacher training course at Cardiff University five years ago.

***

Natasha filed into the tiered lecture-hall with other hungover students who’d been at the May Ball, struggling to recall the session’s focus. The worn carpet in the entrance smelt of damp clothes left too long before airing. She would have stayed in bed, except a new system required students to sign an attendance sheet. Anyone recording less than ninety percent would fail. The course notes had said something about a visiting speaker from an experimental school in West Wales. Natasha presumed this was the bearded man in an open-necked shirt beside the familiar figure of their lecturer. With a burgundy cape and knee-length boots over his faded jeans, he reminded Natasha of a hatless D’Artagnan. His brown eyes radiated a fierce energy as he studied the sleepy gathering.

She watched the musketeer walk to the side of the lecture room, where a wheelbarrow, full of ring binders, stood next to the emergency exit. D’Artagnan lifted the handles. Its squeaking wheel echoed against the high roof of the lecture hall. Two hundred students were now wide awake, watching the metal barrow wobble along the front row. D’Artagnan looked up at the students and raised the handles towards the roof. Folders cascaded onto the floor. Natasha recognised the curriculum guidance for English. The wheelbarrow tumbled onto the pile, feet pointing towards the ceiling, like a rusting, dead sheep. Its wheel continued to spin, squeaking with every rotation, till it emitted a final bleat.

“You’re probably wondering why I’ve heaved this here.” His vowels were laced with a connection to highland distilleries. Natasha could smell the heather and hear the rising call of the plover, carried back to the shores of Loch Rannoch, where she’d walked with Mark last summer.

D’Artagnan bent forward and picked up a yellow ring-binder from the pile of scattered documents. “Geography for Key Stage 3.” He threw the folder across the floor. It slithered to a stop at the feet of a student in the front row. He reached for another. “Mathematics at Key Stage 4, for those students beyond level 6.” He tossed it high in the air and it crashed beside the lectern. “Primary Science”. The ring-binder hit the upturned barrow.

“There are hangars in RAF Duxford, built to house Lancaster bombers that defeated the Third Reich, full to the rafters with pallets of National Curriculum documents. Every teacher in England and Wales has received at least one of these, explaining what must be covered for each year group in their school.”

He kicked aside the scattered folders to create a space. “These tell you what every young person needs to know for each level of the national curriculum—ten levels in all, from age five to sixteen.” His eyes scanned the rows of students. “Six hundred million pounds is a phenomenal investment. That kind of money would build sixty state-of-the-art schools for a thousand pupils. Has it been worth it?” Natasha felt he was looking straight at her.

“For the kids I work with, the answer is a resounding ‘no.’” He walked to the lectern. “My name’s Stephen Grainger and I am the principal of Caerdyffryn College, a residential school near Aberystwyth. We take young people who have rejected school or been turfed out of schools or their own families. They are the “dis” group—sometimes discordant, disreputable and disobedient; often disconsolate, disillusioned and disengaged; nearly always disdained, disregarded and disliked; but rarely discrete, distinguished or decorous.”

Grainger walked closer to the front row. “Let me tell you about Emma who’s been with us a year. She has agreed I can do this, although Emma is not her real name. Not a tale for the squeamish. If you want happy stories, now is the time to leave the room.” He started to talk about the girl from Newport who had come to the attention of social services.

The hush in the lecture hall when he finished reminded Natasha of the two-minute silence on Remembrance Day. She stayed behind at the end, one of a score of students queuing to speak with Grainger. The room had emptied by the time her turn came. Close-up she could feel his vitality. There was an aura around his small frame. He sat on the edge of the table, swinging his crossed legs underneath the wood. He smiled as she approached.

“What was the book you mentioned? The American educator?”

“Rude Boys, you mean?” His fingers stroked the tip of his beard. “Everett Schreiber. So good, I wish I’d written it. Brilliant analysis of how schooling needs to change.”

“I’ll see if it’s in the library.” She scribbled the name in her notepad then looked up again. “I’d like to visit Caerdyffryn.” She was conscious of the intensity in his eyes as she put the request. Her fingers touched the neck of her halter.

“You’d be very welcome.” He wrote a number on a post-it. Natasha noticed he was left handed. “Here’s our phone.” As their fingers touched, she caught the smell of aftershave and turned away, cheeks flushed.

***

Natasha poured some wine into one of the plastic mugs she'd picked up in the services, recalling how she'd read the book before the visit in the early summer of 1992, when Grainger had offered her a job. She started at Caerdyffryn six weeks later. Natasha knew the college had a basic requirement for teachers to have several years’ experience in ordinary schools, so was pretty sure she’d been recruited because Grainger wanted more than enthusiasm. But it became clear he wasn’t going to let anything tarnish the image of a monastic ascetic, and she wasn’t prepared to pursue anything in secret. And there was Mark, of course.

In the staff meeting at Caerdyffryn on Monday, when Stephen had asked for a volunteer to meet Professor Schreiber at Heathrow, she could hardly believe her luck to be chosen. Travelling to the airport meant leaving her students alone to go through the interview transcripts with bereaved siblings and parents. She knew some could find the material harrowing, because of their own experiences of loss and abandonment. But meeting the professor was an opportunity of a lifetime and Lydia had promised to be available for the students.

In the arrival hall, she’d tried to contain her growing disappointment as time ticked past. Then he’d stepped forward, catching her off-guard, because she’d been looking for an older man. She’d sat in the car, excited to be beside the person whose writing had been the single most important influence on her life. Yet when she referred to Rude Boys, he was monosyllabic. Maybe the book was past history for him, whereas its influence was still very present in her work at Caerdyffryn.