target. Tamara, though, had to be always on the move, and gradually Blaylock realised – from the bullet-holes pocking every bricked surface – that the snipers considered her a prime scalp. Each time he had watched her go warily on her toes across the duckboards over the mud he had felt a special dread, fearing the sudden crack and thump of sniper fire.
Even now, under a milky sun in Westminster, Blaylock had to shake his head sharply to dispel things he wished never to think of again, things that squatted there daily and nightly and reproached him.
He folded and re-pocketed Tamara’s letter as he turned into Shovell Street. Outside, the morning’s protesters had grown a shade more populous and louder still, and some of the reporters who hadn’t got him earlier had remained, doggedly. But Andy cleared his path.
As the lift doors were closing upon Blaylock Becky Maynard stuck a hand through the gap and pressed in beside him. ‘Oops!’ she sang, as if she hadn’t meant to intrude. ‘George Morley from the Sun called to ask if he could send one of his reporters on a jog with you tomorrow?’
‘Aw, not in a million years, Becky. I mean, howay.’
‘O-kay. So you know, there’s been some malicious editing of your Wikipedia entry this morning but we’re onto it.’
‘Sorry, my what?’
She passed him an online print-out, a potted biography of himself with a passage ringed in red ink.
Blaylock, a British Army captain in his twenties, is known for his commitment to ex-services charities, also for his ugly temper and acts of thuggish aggression toward people smaller than himself. Colleagues refer to him, without affection, as ‘Rocky’.
‘We’re on it, as I say,’ Becky said to Blaylock’s frown. ‘Also, the Correspondent have a new politics person, her name’s Abigail Hassall and she’s been on about wanting the big interview with you? It would be one sit-down, maybe a day’s shadowing?’
‘Why would I do that?’
‘She said you’re “a fascinating character”.’
‘Bet you spat out your coffee at that, Becky.’
Becky, however, merely blinked. She did not waver.
‘No. If it’s a woman and I’m “fascinating” it means she wants to talk about my ex-wife and all that. No chance.’
In his sights was the larger meeting room adjacent to his office and it was filling up, key personnel of the immigration team slipping past him and Becky, giving half-smiles and rather wide berths. Blaylock turned away, knowing nonetheless that Becky would not roll over.
‘I expect she’ll do a profile on you in any case.’
‘Then she can get all she needs off the internet.’
‘Would you go for a run round the park with her?’
Turning once more he saw Becky’s tongue was in her cheek.
‘As of tomorrow – and, so you know, for the foreseeable? – I’ll be doing my morning run in the gym.’
*
Eric Manning, Director-General of Immigration, was a neat and tidy fellow with gentle manners and a tendency to dress up bad news. Blaylock watched him polishing his designer spectacles as they sat, and he knew what was coming.
‘Well,’ Eric said and blew out his cheeks. ‘The figures are in and we do have a notable year-on rise in new migrants over the first six months of this year. Twenty-one thousand or so, to be precise.’
‘The net total of newcomers being?’
‘One hundred and seventy thousand, two hundred and nineteen.’
Blaylock pressed his forehead into the palms of his hands, involuntarily. What if that was a city? How big would it be? York? Luton? My constituency?
He was surprised upon looking up once more to see faces round the table bearing expressions of concern, in particular his Junior Minister Guy Walters, the young, loyal, not terribly bright MP for Kingsworthy.
‘Home Secretary?’ said Walters. ‘Are you—?’
‘Sorry. Go on, Eric.’
Manning continued. ‘The rises are equal in EU and non-EU, but the latter remains ahead overall. But, there are some encouraging
Even now, under a milky sun in Westminster, Blaylock had to shake his head sharply to dispel things he wished never to think of again, things that squatted there daily and nightly and reproached him.
He folded and re-pocketed Tamara’s letter as he turned into Shovell Street. Outside, the morning’s protesters had grown a shade more populous and louder still, and some of the reporters who hadn’t got him earlier had remained, doggedly. But Andy cleared his path.
As the lift doors were closing upon Blaylock Becky Maynard stuck a hand through the gap and pressed in beside him. ‘Oops!’ she sang, as if she hadn’t meant to intrude. ‘George Morley from the Sun called to ask if he could send one of his reporters on a jog with you tomorrow?’
‘Aw, not in a million years, Becky. I mean, howay.’
‘O-kay. So you know, there’s been some malicious editing of your Wikipedia entry this morning but we’re onto it.’
‘Sorry, my what?’
She passed him an online print-out, a potted biography of himself with a passage ringed in red ink.
Blaylock, a British Army captain in his twenties, is known for his commitment to ex-services charities, also for his ugly temper and acts of thuggish aggression toward people smaller than himself. Colleagues refer to him, without affection, as ‘Rocky’.
‘We’re on it, as I say,’ Becky said to Blaylock’s frown. ‘Also, the Correspondent have a new politics person, her name’s Abigail Hassall and she’s been on about wanting the big interview with you? It would be one sit-down, maybe a day’s shadowing?’
‘Why would I do that?’
‘She said you’re “a fascinating character”.’
‘Bet you spat out your coffee at that, Becky.’
Becky, however, merely blinked. She did not waver.
‘No. If it’s a woman and I’m “fascinating” it means she wants to talk about my ex-wife and all that. No chance.’
In his sights was the larger meeting room adjacent to his office and it was filling up, key personnel of the immigration team slipping past him and Becky, giving half-smiles and rather wide berths. Blaylock turned away, knowing nonetheless that Becky would not roll over.
‘I expect she’ll do a profile on you in any case.’
‘Then she can get all she needs off the internet.’
‘Would you go for a run round the park with her?’
Turning once more he saw Becky’s tongue was in her cheek.
‘As of tomorrow – and, so you know, for the foreseeable? – I’ll be doing my morning run in the gym.’
*
Eric Manning, Director-General of Immigration, was a neat and tidy fellow with gentle manners and a tendency to dress up bad news. Blaylock watched him polishing his designer spectacles as they sat, and he knew what was coming.
‘Well,’ Eric said and blew out his cheeks. ‘The figures are in and we do have a notable year-on rise in new migrants over the first six months of this year. Twenty-one thousand or so, to be precise.’
‘The net total of newcomers being?’
‘One hundred and seventy thousand, two hundred and nineteen.’
Blaylock pressed his forehead into the palms of his hands, involuntarily. What if that was a city? How big would it be? York? Luton? My constituency?
He was surprised upon looking up once more to see faces round the table bearing expressions of concern, in particular his Junior Minister Guy Walters, the young, loyal, not terribly bright MP for Kingsworthy.
‘Home Secretary?’ said Walters. ‘Are you—?’
‘Sorry. Go on, Eric.’
Manning continued. ‘The rises are equal in EU and non-EU, but the latter remains ahead overall. But, there are some encouraging
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