Raucous by Ben Paul Dunn Page B

were also inside.  Ben opened the window onto the alley, lit up and inhaled.

CHAPTER NINETEEN
    Sir Alex Chamberlain's phone rang.  Nobody phoned him on his landline any more.  It was an old Bakelite circular dial from the 70s.  Everything was done through the mobile network.  He looked at the phone ringing away, the repeated trills. The memories it brought back. He was sat at his desk in his small mansion in the country, a two million pound property in perfect condition, Ivy climbing the walls, a long gravel drive.  A two-meter high perimeter fence enclosed the forty acres of perfectly kept grass and woodland.  The only entrance was a large security gate to stop unwelcome intruders.  The media circus that arrived twice a year to ask him questions about new policy and the effect it had on the poor.  He felt safe here.  It had been his home for thirty years.  There were memories of his wife, but he thought little of her.  She had served her purpose, more in death than in life.  No children to look after, or support or discretely remove from bad choices and embarrassing incidents.  Just him and three dogs, all with the same names of the dogs that had lived and died in the past.  Tosh, Keegan, and Shankly.  The names given by a man who had spent a lifetime pretending to care about a football team he rarely watched.
    The phone kept ringing.  If it were urgent, his cell would start to vibrate, if it wasn’t, then nothing lost.
    Sir Alex returned to the documents on his table.  He needed to make cuts.  He had no idea where, his staff made the decisions and he signed off.  He could flip a coin on every one and claim his decision was based on the collective good of the nation.
    The phone rang again. 
    Sir Alex checked his mobile.  No missed calls or messages.  He stared at the phone and stood.  The phone stopped ringing again.  He bent forward and took the mouse in his hand and clicked onto his open email account.  He refreshed the page but there were no new messages.  He decided on making a tea and started to walk toward his kitchen.  The phone started to ring again.
    Sir Alex picked up.
    “Good Evening, Sir Alex,” the voice said.
    Sir Alex had heard the voice before.  Maybe, he thought, it is that fake-patriotic journalist from the telegraph.
    “How did you get this number?”
    “I took the chance you hadn’t changed it in seventeen years.  Looks like I was right.”
    Sir Alex blinked.  Recognition sank in.  He pulled the phone away from his ear and stared as if it too were memory from a past age.
    “Is it true?” the voice asked.
    “Is what true?”
    “You know what I’m talking about.”
    Sir Alex paused, licked his lower lip.  “It appears to be so, yes.”
    “I went to the funeral.”
    “I am aware of that.”
    “I don’t recall seeing you there.  Did you know?”
    Sir Alex thought, he tried to do it quick.  Nothing came.  Emptiness.
    “This is as big a surprise to me as it is to you,” he said.
    “You shouldn’t pause so long, makes it sound like you’re lying.”
    “I wouldn’t lie.”
    “That’s a plain ignorant thing to say.  You’re a politician.  Goes without saying you’re a liar.”
    “It doesn’t change the deal.”
    “I disagree; it very much changes the deal.”
    “Not on this.  For this you are very much on your own.  Any plan of action is yours.  Any risks are your risks.”
    “No, Sir Alex, we are very much together.”
    “It wasn’t smart phoning here.  Parker could have answered.”
    “No, he couldn’t.  He left twenty minutes ago in his big posh car.  I watched him.”
    Sir Alex looked to the window.  There were no curtains only a light silk mesh. 
    “Can you not see me?” the voice asked.  “Shame, I'm looking particularly good this morning.”
    “What do you want?”
    “Make sure he stays safe until I’m ready.”
    The line went dead but Sir Alex held the phone to his ear and stared out of his window.

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