‘And conservatives know that you can’t change human nature and therefore the suffering must have been born to be the suffering; at the most fundamental level — they have brought their pain upon themselves. They could only be forgiven if they thrived and conquered and no longer need any help. And if you can’t change human nature, you don’t need government — it’s an unnecessary burden to tax the people. It has to go — except for those posts occupied by those who believe that you can’t change human nature. They have to stay. To make sure there’s no change.
‘And progressives believe that you can change human nature and therefore the great plunging herd of voters must be restrained and managed at all times by armies of virulent overseers. And those overseers must justify their presence — they have to make those inevitable changes very obvious and challenging and extreme, otherwise the change might look as if it would have happened anyway without their help, because you can change human nature.
‘And it used to be just a little bit, you know just here and there, just a little bit more fucking sane and honourable than that. Some of them had brains … Some of then still do …
‘But fuck both sides against the middle now. A plague on all their houses now.’
Milner killed his pint of bitter during this, eating it up while shaking his head. ‘Jon … Poor, Jonnie …’ He winked. ‘Abuse and conspiracy theories … That’s my cup of tea, surely?’
Jon stirred his syrupy tea, then found the first sip revolting, ‘What is a political party? A conspiracy with membership cards. Conspiracy as re-engineered by greedy children. What is Parliament? An institution designed to prevent any activist from staying active. Ask any decent MP, once the hundred days’ shine has rubbed off them.’ The sugar wasn’t working. ‘I want to give you something else.’
‘I knew you were holding out on me.’
‘Shut up. I can’t … I can only …’ Jon was breathing badly, stupidly, in a way that might draw attention. He pulled out a pen and wrote a phone number on to a beer mat. This was the number he kept in his head, safe with only one other. It had never been written down.
The things that you don’t want to lose, you trust to no one, you hide them inside.
Jon swallowed a mouthful of unruly saliva. ‘Put that in your pocket. Now.’ And he waited while Milner gave him that patronising half-smile — as if he’s looking at a crack-up, at a fuck-up — but then he did pocket the beer mat.
First you step out on the ledge. Then you just step out. You try to like the feeling it gives you — airy. Oh God and St Cecilia, oh Cecilia — in whom I do not believe — please believe in me.
‘Go on, then, James sodding Bond. Left the tuxedo at home, did you? Miniature radio in your knickers?’
‘Shut up.’
‘I do this for a living. I don’t sit about being self-righteous and wanking on about the problems I helped create. “Ooh, I am so sorry I built the hand grenade. I just never had the time to think what a hand grenade could be for — and it looked so pretty …” You twat.’ Milner troubling the sweat on his face with a broad palm. ‘I actually go to places that could kill me and bring back information that saves lives. I don’t piss about in an office being scared of my own paperwork, compromising my dick away …’
‘Shut up.’ Jon feeling his own sweat creeping down the back of his neck like the feet of shamed insects. ‘You haven’t been anywhere lately — not at all — you’re spent. And this, by the way, is the end. Of us. But I brought you a present — OK? A goodbye kiss.’ The carpet flexing under his feet as he says this. ‘This is something to make you whole again — possibly — and then you can forget me because I won’t be any use to you, I’ll be working somewhere else. I mean, I won’t be, I will have … It’s of no importance what I’ll be.’
And Jon caught hold of Milner’s hand.
Because I need to — the need to cling — primate need.
The contact was hardly a comfort — like grabbing a starfish, a squid, a dead animal — and the grazed area on Jon’s palm complained mildly, not liking the touch of hot salt.
Here I go — airy — airy and falling, I can feel the rush.
And then Jon started to talk it all out, spill it — the real stuff — gabbling because he might otherwise faint before he was done. ‘That number will be burned in a week’s time, but if you call it before then a man will answer and tell you a story. It’s a good story. Very interesting. I’ll provide you with a precis, which goes like this: the man is Mr Alex Harcourt and he once worked for a company called Hardstand. Hardstand provides IT solutions, as we have to term them: software, hardware, support, peripherals. The company has another division that deals with office catering … which makes a kind of sense. They sell you the sandwich you eat in front of the computer they also sold you and now maintain for you, because you don’t know how to.’
Milner barged in with,‘What, has he scored some dodgy emails? I’m hardly going to wet myself for that.’
‘Pay attention. Please!’ This syllable reminding him of a song — of some song …
And Jon was under the impression that his heart was not right any more, that it had come unstuck — if this were possible — and would soon refuse to function — along with his ruined brain — all of which would be sad, but not much of a loss. He couldn’t foresee excessive mourning. ‘Mr Harcourt works for a subdivision of a subsidiary of a subsidiary of Hardstand. He is a specialist. He was. He retired. Eventually, Milner, one gets old and either does or doesn’t deal with it. Harcourt isn’t old. He is fatigued. He got nervous, or moral, definitely weary, probably scared. One does. He can give you dates, times, details, whatever you want on this. He is set on giving his particular game away. I won’t ever speak to him again. You can if you want. I won’t know … I insist on not knowing.’
Milner by this time smiling gently and in the manner of a man who wheedles indiscretions out of imprudently relaxed Kazakh diplomats, or oil-company execs. Or fading civil servants.
‘Harcourt groomed phones. His term. He wanted to talk about grooming — the only reason I met him. He turned up in an email — one email — when I was looking for something else. And I found him out because I can do that — I find out information. It’s not some remarkable and exclusive journalistic skill — I do it all the time. And my stuff ’s pure …’ Jon paused to breathe, let his shoulders come down. He allowed himself to uncover the name, the story, the everything of Harcourt — the everything he packed away each morning in his dusty torso, under his gone-adrift heart, hidden so no one could see it unless they cut him open.
Harcourt. He was in another pub — out Walthamstow way. So I’m sitting there and facing this balding guy in a maroon leather jacket. He looked ex-army and unsuccessful — an NCO who might end up as an unhandy plumber, try driving a cab — looked as if he might enjoy violence of the bullying sort: against women, against kids. I sat and made assumptions about him along those lines … Wrong assumptions.