Collusion: A Novel, Part 2
A frightening incident in the pub, a connection between the Football Lads Action Group and Northern Ireland, a meeting with a Tory MP and terror on the high seas
On Tuesdays and Thursdays, I’ll publish a section from the novel. Here is Chapter 1 for those who missed it. The story so far: Michael Ashton, a journalist, is working on a story about right-wing football lads in 2019 as Britain tears itself apart over Brexit. They harass a female Conservative MP and threaten Ashton. The things escalate…
Chapter 2: Last Orders
It was quiet in the pub when Ashton arrived. Apart from meetings, he had developed the habit of going in around 10pm. The crowds had died down by then. It could be hectic between the hours when offices emptied out and 9.30pm. Although it made him feel old, he preferred a quieter environment.
This was the last Thursday of January, though. Payday. White-collar workers on their first blowout since the new year lingered, shouting and shrieking with incoherent tipsy pleasure. A handful of workplace colleagues crowded the bar, demanding shots. The pub manager, unasked, handed Ashton a tall, German-style glass full of golden, effervescent keg beer. “Wiper & True,” he said. “Bristol Crush. Right up your street.”
Ashton took four greedy gulps and nodded his approval. “Top notch,” he said. “Busy?” He looked over his shoulder and rolled his eyes.
“Crazy earlier. Dry January is over, I reckon.”
“Beer is for life, not just Christmas,” Ashton said with contempt.
“True,” the barman said. “Titch’s back. Got a table in the corner.”
“Give me what he’s drinking and another one of these, please chief.”
Titch was someone Ashton met in the pub. They tended to frequent the place at the same times and Titch was hard to miss. He was huge; a six-footer who was perhaps 20st or more. He could have been anywhere between 50 and 60, with a ruddy, affable face.
Ashton approved of his taste in beer. The big man always wanted the best that the pub had to offer. His favourite, though, was lambic ale. Titch invariably closed out the night with a beer fermented with wild yeast. Generally, these were the highly-prized, spritzy Belgian originals, the traditional produce of Pajottenland, famed as the ‘champagne of Brussels.’ British and American breweries also tried to emulate the style, designating their versions as ‘sours.’ Titch eagerly tried them all.
For more than a year they shared space at the bar, noticing what the other ordered but never speaking. Ashton could not remember how they came to converse but they had bonded over their love of fine beer. After that, they found they had other interests in common: politics, football and history. They rarely planned to meet but frequently ended up standing or sitting together while they savoured their drinks. At first, Ashton was uncomfortable about calling him Titch, which he assumed was a laboured nickname related to his bulk that had somehow stuck. So he asked him about it. “My full name is Sherwood Titchfield,” he said, “and I prefer Titch to Sher or any variations on Sherwood. I’ve been called Titch by my friends for a long time… and I haven’t always been fat.” So that was it.
Titch was prepping for his late-night lambic with a pint of Marble’s Manchester Bitter. “How have you been?” he asked Ashton. “Busy?”
There was a lot to catch up on. Titch was retired and split his time between Spain and Pimlico. He’d been around for Christmas but returned to Andalusia for the turn of the year. “Bits and bobs,” Ashton said. “Met the Football Lads Action Group this week. The footsoliders of Brexit. At least that’s how they imagine themselves. And their mates: Ex-Squaddies Against Terror. You might have seen them on the news abusing that MP, Orlanda York.”
“Ah, them,” Titch said. “You must have gone down a storm.” Ashton’s politics were transparent; his friend’s less so.
“They threatened me.” They both chuckled. “And you? All good?”
“Could not be better. Ready for some good cask beer.”
Titch was not from London. Ashton presumed he was from Nottinghamshire because of his unusual first name – and the fact that he supported Forest and talked longingly about the much lamented Mansfield Bitter. Asked what kind of work brought him south, Titch said that he was a career civil servant. He lived in a mews house that seemed beyond the affordability of government employees but explained it by saying that Pimlico was significantly more run down when he arrived in the late 1970s and he was fortunate enough to have had a modest family bequest. The youngsters behind the bar created a romantic narrative that he was involved in the intelligence services. He heard about it and laughed it off. “A lifelong pen-pusher, me,” he chuckled. “Look at this.” He patted his belly. “This is what a quarter of a century behind a desk does to a man.”
It was a compelling argument but, every now and then, he would allude to strange postings. Once, he mentioned being in Kosovo and when Ashton’s eyes widened he made a point. “Bureaucrats are needed everywhere, dear boy. Everywhere.” Still, it was hard not to be suspicious.
“How long are you home?”
“Probably until the Barcelona beer festival in March. Six weeks. I’ve a couple of things to do around the country. There appears to be a lot of angry people about. I was down in Whitehall to see a friend earlier and had a pint in the Red Lion. Emotions are running high.”
Ashton shook his head. “It’s unpleasant. Friends are falling out, the political apparatus is seizing up. Brexit’s put sugar in the petrol tank of democracy.”
“Mmmm,” Titch said. “It might be bigger than that. The internet has exposed the weaknesses of our system. There’s trouble ahead.”
With ominous timing, the bell rang for last orders.
*
They arranged to meet at 5pm the next day. Titch had brought some Alpujarras beer home for his friend to sample and wanted to give Ashton the bottles before spending the weekend out of town. The pub was already packed when they arrived. They managed to find a space at the island that surrounded the pillar nearest the bar and sat on stools in a position where Ashton could not see the door or the seats that backed on to the short entrance hallway.
They had been drinking and chatting idly for half an hour when a man Ashton recognised approached the bar. The newcomer stood in the open area near the toilets and turned away from the pumps to the back of the pub where the majority of seats and tables were placed. Ashton froze, leant on his elbow and covered his face with his hand and arm. “Titch, see the fella with the scar, in front of the toilet?” The older man nodded. “He’s one of the ExSat people. The one I met in the Royal Standard of England.”
“He’s seen whoever he’s meeting,” Titch said. “He’s gone to sit down. He can’t see you from there. Take a peek at his friend going to the bar.”
Ashton looked. It was not what he expected. The man was in his late 60s, wearing an expensive suit and tie. “He looks like an MP.”
Titch raised his eyebrows. “No, not an MP. Don’t you know who he is?”
“No.”
“I do. His name is John Armstrong. Sir John. He… he exercises influence. I suppose you could call it public relations or perhaps lobbying. Something like that. He’s very respectable.” There was a long pause. “Now,” Titch added.
“What’s he doing with a fella like that? Is he in favour of Brexit?”
“Most certainly,” Titch said. “He’s definitely enough of a right-winger. Now he’s a fixture in Westminster but, in a former life, he was the semi-acceptable, political face of the Ulster Volunteer Vanguard, some of the worst killers of the Troubles.”
“How do you know this?” Ashton was alert.
“He comes in here. Mostly on Sundays for lunch. You never come in for lunch, do you?”
“No.”
“I don’t think he’s a beer buff especially, but he likes expensive things. Once he was showing off by buying a round of four Alesmith Reforged XX at £105 a bottle. ‘More expensive than champagne,’ he was boasting. No one at the table came anywhere near to finishing their bottle. I could have slapped the lot of them. Even I can’t justify paying that.
“He’s sometimes with some very important Ulstermen, the sort who are propping up the government. Now, especially, he’s got a lot of sway.”
“Wow.”
Titch could see the men from where he sat. “They are having a very intense conversation.”
“What do you think?”
Titch bobbed his head from side to side, considering the question. “Definitely an ex-serviceman. Could be special forces. Paras at the very least. Interesting wound on his face. Taking the Action Man aesthetic a bit too far. Whatever happened, he had a lucky escape. Relatively recently, too. Not someone I’d advise messing with, for sure.”
“Joseph said he was a killer. Trying to scare me.”
“He might not be too far off beam, dear boy. My advice? Give him a wide berth.”
Titch shifted his bulk off the stool and shuffled to the bar. “Same again?”
The only way the man could see Ashton was if either went to the bar or the toilet. Or if the journalist revealed himself. He would not be that silly. Surely.
But he could not resist. He leant over into the vacant space left by Titch and peeked around the corner. Just one eye was exposed and only for a millisecond but it was just as the ExSat member looked up. They locked gazes and, for the first time, Ashton saw an expression on that blank face. It was one of anger and surprise. He whispered something to Armstrong, stood up and barged his way out of the door. The Ulsterman followed but in no rush. Before he left, Armstrong returned to the bar and drained his glass, all the time staring at Ashton.
Titch came back to find his drinking partner with his head in his hands.
“I’m an idiot. They saw me. I looked. He bolted and Armstrong left afterwards but made sure he took a good look at me.”
“He’ll think you were trailing him.” Titch was joking. Maybe.
“Shit. But why would anyone meet here? Lots of people might see them in a place like this?”
“Well,” Titch said, “Armstrong usually goes more upmarket, somewhere like the Goring. He probably thought your mate would be more comfortable in this environment. How many people apart from you would know he’s part of this ExSat nonsense?
“Plus, Armstrong wouldn’t want his rich and powerful friends to see him slumming it with semi-educated thugs like this…” he thought for a while, “… killer.” Titch laughed. “He likes to leave that sort of thing in his past.”
Ashton looked worried. “What can they have been discussing?”
“There are political marriages of convenience happening all over town,” Titch said. “Westminster’s full of unlikely and unpleasant bedfellows. Your mate was probably put in touch with Armstrong and is trying to get money or support from him and his friends. You probably did his lordship a favour spooking the squaddie. Armstrong didn’t have to find a polite way to disengage. That’s the likeliest scenario. All kinds of oddballs approach people like Armstrong because he’s good at raising cash.”
But Titch was obviously troubled by it. “Let me know if you hear from Joseph or any of his followers. If they’re worried you’ll know soon enough.”
Ashton jumped every time the phone rang or a text dinged over the weekend but there was no contact from FLAG or ExSat. By the start of the next week he had put the incident from his mind and began pursuing Orlanda York for an interview. It was the only way to get editors interested. Someone needed to be scared of bogeymen to make them into a good story.
*
Frank Joseph was enjoying the limelight. His appearance at Westminster Magistrates Court turned chaotic very quickly. Since Ashton had last seen him, FLAG’s leader had grown a neat beard. At first sight he looked very respectable, wearing a tight-fitting suit rather than Stone Island. The public gallery was packed and Joseph played to it with gusto.
He winked and gestured at the goons who had come to lend their support. He denied three charges of harassing York and lectured the magistrate. “This is all wrong,” he said in a loud, hectoring voice. “It is not illegal to criticise an MP. This is a conspiracy to deny the people their voice and you are complicit in it, Sir.”
There was cheering from the gallery and shouts of “traitor”. Someone called out “York is a whore.” The magistrate adjourned the case for 20 minutes in an attempt to restore some sanity. It did not work. When he began to inform Joseph of his bail conditions, the defendant interrupted: “This will not be a fair trial. This is a political kangaroo court. Its aim is to silence the voice of the right, the voice of the people.”
On the steps of court he addressed the cameras. “There is a conspiracy to silence people who tell the truth,” he said. “The mainstream media and the metropolitan elite do not want our voices heard.” The statement was rather undermined because he was being filmed by the BBC, ITV News and Sky News. “More and more people around this nation are listening to us, though, and our support is growing by the day. This is a war of cultures and Orlanda York represents the smug, self-satisfied clique that have run the country to suit themselves. If we are silenced it will be a crime against the British people. But we will not be silenced.
“We will continue to hold our elected representatives to account. We will take to the streets if necessary.” The small crowd of supporters cheered. “If we have to fight, we will. We will take on the establishment and win. Orlanda York, we are coming for you and your friends. Your time is over. Tomorrow belongs to us.”
Ashton winced as he watched the news bulletin. Why in God’s name were they giving airtime to this jumped-up thug? The dysfunctional political climate had allowed the worst elements of British society a free rein. He checked Twitter on the phone. Scores of angry men on FLAG’s timeline were repeating the accusation that York was a prostitute. That was just the start of it. There were threats of sexual violence and demands that the MP should be hung and her body left on Westminster Bridge as a warning to others.
A start-up website specialising in long reads was interested in taking Ashton’s story but the editor was very keen that he speak to York. Rather than go through her office, he called a friend, a PR man with close links to the Tory party. Like in the case of Sir John Armstrong, Ashton’s contact stretched the idea of public relations beyond its normal meaning. Barry Pierce was a master of dark arts and a significant Conservative donor who had the ear of some of the most powerful politicians in the country.
The phone rang once and was picked up. For a moment there was no reply, just the clink of glasses and the building babble of a late-afternoon pub.
“Ash, Ash, Ash… where are you? Get down here. I’m just having lunch with a friend. A CEO of a huge company and he’s a Liverpool fan. He wants to know whether you’ll win the league. I’ll put him on.”
Ashton sighed. This was classic behaviour from Pierce. A tipsy stranger said hello. They made self-conscious small talk just long enough for it not to become embarrassing and then the phone was passed back.
“Barry, I need to pick your brain.”
“Come down. We’re in the Counting House in the City. We’ll be here for some time. There’s a few people it’d be good for you to meet.”
“No,” Ashton said with certainty. Pierce sounded well on the way to incoherence. Every day turned into a long night with his style of public relations. “Tell me about Orlanda York.”
“Lovely,” Pierce said. “Even sexier in real life.” Pierce was approaching 60 and displayed the sort of adolescent attitude to women that many men who’d grown up in the 1960s and 70s could not seem to shake. Ashton groaned.
“I’m serious. I’ve been working on a story and met that fella who’s up in court for abusing her. I think him and his mates are dangerous. They said threatening things about her to me. I’d like to talk to her about it. How well do you know her?”
“Well enough to make sure none of these fuckers harm her,” Pierce said. “I was friends with her father and have known her since she was in nappies. Let me give her a call. What are your movements for the rest of the week? I’ll try and sort something out.”
Over the next seven hours Pierce sent a succession of texts updating Ashton about his attempts to make contact with the MP. They became increasingly incomprehensible and did not end until gone 2am. Then, less than five hours later, the phone woke Ashton. A remarkably fresh-sounding Pierce was on the line.
“Woke you have I?” he laughed. “No wonder you people are always skint. You sleep half the day away.”
“Better than drinking it away,” Ashton said sourly.
“I’ll meet you outside Portcullis House at ten past eleven,” Pierce said. “We’ll have a quick coffee with Orlanda and then we can have a proper drink. She hasn’t got much time because she is going to Prime Minister’s Questions at noon.”
It was cold but dry so Ashton walked to Westminster. He made an effort to look respectable: he wore suede boots and chino-type trousers instead of jeans and training shoes. A white shirt and a three-buttoned blazer completed the look. These were the clothes he wore whenever he was invited on to a TV show. Perhaps it was because of his background but he never really felt smart. He felt like an imposter whenever he was forced to wear a suit.
Pierce texted him just before 11 to say he was having a sharpener in the Red Lion so Ashton dropped in. It wasn’t until he was standing at the bar that he remembered that the group of FLAG bullies had gone to this pub. He hoped it was too early for them and remained wary until his friend finished his glass of red wine, which disappeared in three gulps. They were back on the street in less than five minutes.
Pierce was disturbingly thin and his addiction to alcohol left no trace on his belly or his face, which was permanently suntanned. The only thing that gave him away was the purple tannin stains on his lips. He wore a very expensive but understated hand-made suit without a tie. The top two buttons on his shirt were left open to expose tufts of chest hair.
He briefed Ashton quickly as they walked around the block. “She’s very, very bright,” Pierce said. “I love clever women. So sexy.” Ashton rolled his eyes. “She’s very good with people, very sociable. But she’s married to the Conservative Party. Politics is her life. Got a nice safe home-counties constituency. It voted Remain, too. She’s very committed to Europe.”
Ashton knew all this. But he listened. “She will not be swayed. The whips won’t bully her. Nor your hooligan mates. You’ll like her.”
They went through airport-style security into Portcullis House. The building was less than 20 years old and about a third of MPs had their offices there, overlooking the Thames. Orlanda York strode between two lines of indoor fig trees with the self-confidence of someone used to being listened to and respected. That, thought Ashton, is a benefit of the public school system. She was in her mid 30s, around average height and wore a silk, pale blue polo neck jumper, elegant trousers and low heeled shoes. Pierce was greeted with kisses on both cheeks and a hug. Ashton shook hands. He was glad: he never liked the London double kiss.
They sat in the atrium, under the spider’s web of tubular metal rafters and the dirty glass roof. Ashton shook his head at the 12 fig trees, positioned to create a small leafy avenue. The MP noticed. “Don’t you like them?” she said.
“I read about how much it costs to maintain them,” he replied.
“They are good for the soul.” She smiled but wasn’t backing down. “The soul takes a bashing when you become an MP.”
She was, as Pierce said, very attractive. Politicians need charisma and York had it. Her hair was brown and shoulder length and her skin was fresh enough not to need makeup. When Ashton talked, she maintained contact with green, interested eyes and listened to every word. Before replying she took a moment to consider the ramifications of what she had been told.
“Do you think I’m in danger from these men?”
“Not from Joseph, no,” Ashton admitted. “But it’s his associates that worry me. ExSat are the dangerous ones. I’m sure the police and your security know about them but they’re worth flagging up. I think the next few weeks are going to be ugly and people are taking extreme positions.”
“Some people,” York said, “even my colleagues, are using language that is unwise. They are evoking the past in an irresponsible manner, using the rhetoric of conflict. I know you are very well informed but I don’t think…” she paused, aware these were the quotes he wanted, “I don’t think even you realise how toxic things will become. Things are being said that inflame the worst sort of instincts. Why is everyone so angry?”
There was an earnest look on her face but Ashton was having none of it. “That’s what a decade of austerity does to a country,” he said. “Go up north and take a look around. No jobs, public services shorn to the bone, people living lives without aspiration and expectation… You’ve voted to reduce housing, welfare and disability benefits and you’re in favour of cutting services. Essentially, you’ve voted for poverty. For other people, of course. That’s what drove Brexit for the majority of voters. In here, it might be a civil war within your party but not in the real world.” He remained composed so that no hint of the fury he was feeling infused his words. “Most people aren’t bad. They are just scared. But you have attracted the attention of some nasty characters. They need stopping.”
For a moment Ashton thought York was about to defend her political stance but she decided it was not worth it. “If you have any more dealings with these people, please let me know,” she said crisply. “It might help. Barry can give you my contact details. Thank you for your time.”
They shook hands and she kissed Pierce again but just once. “I need to go back into that nest of vipers… I mean the House,” she said.
Outside, Pierce shook his head. “I think she likes you,” he said. “You’ve got that off-to-a-bad-start-rom-com-vibe down perfectly.”
“I appreciate you setting this up,” Ashton said, “but any more of your bullshit and you’re going in the river. Come on, I’ll buy you a drink.”
They walked past the tube entrance, crossed the road under the shadow of Big Ben and Pierce said, “How about the Marquis of Granby? There’ll be plenty of gossip in there.” He was right. The BBC and Sky had offices on Millbank and quite a few journalists nipped out for a pint in Dean Bradley Street, along with workers from Parliament and various government agencies.
“That’d be good,” Ashton said. “But do you mind if we take the long way round? I don’t want to bump into Joseph and his mob again. They’ve probably already got the idea I’m stalking them. I suspect that with those boys misunderstandings can turn ugly very quickly.”
They looked down Abingdon Street and the high-vis jackets were doing their job. FLAG stood out. The shouting and abuse was louder today. The two men watched in silence for a while and then strolled down Broad Sanctuary past Westminster Abbey. Tourists were calmly queuing for entry, just like pilgrims had for centuries. It was quiet and respectful. Five minutes away, democracy was coming apart at the seams. “Pray for the nation,” Ashton murmured. It was the only thing he could think of to say.
*
That night he met Titch in the pub and told him about his encounter with the MP. “Ah, the delightful Ms York,” the older man said. “She’s been brave standing up to some of the Eurosceptic nutters. Parliament needs more like her.”
“Tories? No thanks,” Ashton said. “Anyway, I’m thinking of doing a beer run this week. Just in case there’s a hard Brexit next month. I can’t really afford it but in these times you need good ale. I’ll make a reservation at Westvleteren tomorrow and nip over. They only let you have two crates now. Oh for the happy days of the early 2000s when you could get as many as 10.”
“I’d go with you except I’ve got some stuff I have to do. I’m envious.”
“Anything interesting?”
“Tai Chi,” Titch said. Ashton spat beer over the table. He imagined this bulky former bureaucrat lumbering around a room in oriental garb. The image would be stuck in his mind for some time. “It has been some years since I’ve attended classes. I’m looking forward to it. You should try it. It’s good for your mind.”
The next morning Ashton spent three hours on the phone before he got through to St Sixtus abbey to make an appointment in his halting French. The Trappist monks produced small batches of three beers: a 6.2 per cent blond; an eight per cent dark ale that was simply called 8; and the 12, a 10.2 per cent black barley wine. When Ashton first discovered the place, hidden in the farmlands of West Flanders, there was no need to call in advance and customer allowances were more generous. Unfortunately, an American website hailed Westvleteren 12 as the best beer in the world. Sell-on prices rocketed. The Cistercians reacted by cutting the brewing run and keeping tighter control on sales.
It was available in London at £30 per bottle for those really desperate for a taste but a crate of 24 cost just €45 at the monastery gates. Plus, Ashton planned to load up on other Belgian classics at a nearby warehouse in Krombeke. With careful packing he could get the equivalent of 25 crates into his decrepit Volvo V70 estate. The car was a quarter of a century old but hardy. It had carried him through many beer runs in more prosperous times.
He caught a mid-morning ferry from Dover 24 hours later. The ship, the Spirit of Britain, was now sailing under a Cypriot banner after being reflagged in anticipation of Brexit. Ashton chatted to half a dozen long-distance lorry drivers while waiting in the queue to embark. All of the six were worried for their livelihoods when the break with Europe occurred. Four were still in favour of leaving the EU. It felt like Britain’s spirit was at its most self-destructive.
It was relatively quiet on board. There were few families travelling. Half-term was still a fortnight away. Two or three coachloads of schoolchildren heading to visit war graves ran about the passenger decks having fun until the weather deteriorated. The channel had an unrelenting roll. Once the ferry passed the breakwater, even the most excitable teenagers kept their movements to a minimum.
Ashton sat in the bar, sipping water and making use of the wifi. About halfway through the voyage he got bored and gingerly took a walk around the decks. There was little of interest but it whiled away 10 minutes. He went back to the bar and, on a whim, decided to brave outside. Turning right to avoid the designated smokers’ section, he leant over the rail and let the sleety wind blow into his face for a couple of minutes. He was just about to go inside when he heard the door open behind him. Two men came out and had a brief conversation.
“Too windy out here,” one shouted above the gale in an unidentifiable eastern European accent. “It’s cold.” The reply came from an Englishman.
“Aye. It’s bitter.”
They went back inside but Ashton froze. Bitter. He knew that voice. No, it couldn’t be. He composed himself and tried to think it through rationally. It’s just a Geordie, he said to himself. It’s too much of a coincidence. It could not be Killer.
He’d laughed uneasily when Titch called the scarred former solider ‘Killer’ but now he shivered – and not with the cold. But surely it was not the same person?
He waited another five minutes and crept back inside. The bar was moderately full and he could not see anyone he recognised but he was reluctant to bump into the ExSat man again. This was a person who radiated danger and, deep down, Ashton was not sure he was up to dealing with the threat.
It was too early to go back to the car so he bounded up a set of blue stairs – each area had a designated colour scheme – to get to the upper deck. It was a dead end. A man in uniform hung on to the door handle inside the Club Lounge and looked at Ashton in a manner that suggested the journalist was in the wrong place. It crossed his mind to try and talk his way inside but the steward’s expression caused him to think again.
He had to go back downstairs. The swell was getting stronger, so he held the handrail and tried to take stock. Walking was becoming a problem so Killer – if it was him – and his accomplice were undoubtedly sitting down. But where? Had they gone back into the bar? That was the most likely place. Ashton would have to take the chance and pass through that section.
He walked as quickly as possible, reeling from wall to wall as the ship lurched sideways. Exiting the bar like a drunk, he picked up speed and slammed into a pillar. Holding on, he looked down the long arcade. Killer – he could not stop himself thinking of the man that way – was sitting on one of the blue lounger seats with his back to Ashton. Even though he could not see the face, the journalist was almost certain it was the individual he feared. The ship shifted again and a woman’s voice said “Whoa!” loudly from the bar area. Everyone turned to see who had made the noise so Ashton bear-hugged the pillar and pressed as much of his countenance as possible into the support. He held his breath but attention had switched to a schoolboy who was overwhelmed by seasickness. As the youngster puked, Ashton stumbled into a small section packed with video slot machines. He held on to one and glanced up. Killer turned towards him. The man’s eyes narrowed and he tapped his mate on the leg, mouthed “Come on” and stood up.
Ashton bolted into the corridor. Instinctively he clambered up the stairs. It was a mistake. The Brasserie was to his right and he knew from his earlier exploring session that there was no other exit. If he went in, he was cornered. The commercial drivers’ lounge lay straight ahead but required a ticket to enter. Guessing that the steward would be reluctant to move from a secure position to block him, he rushed inside. It was a risky ploy. A staff member called to him asking to be shown a pass but Ashton waved back wildly and blew out his cheeks as if rushing to vomit. He went into the toilet opposite the entrance to work out his next move.
Within a minute he heard the steward call out again: “Truck drivers only, lads. You got your boarding passes?” He heard no answer so presumed his pursuers had headed for the Brasserie. They would be back as soon as they had searched that room. Ashton made up his mind and, desperate for a moment of stability, wobbled back through the doors and tumbled down the yellow staircase.
Where next? The family lounge was at the front of the ship and contained the most people but there was nowhere to hide. Time was running out. He needed to make a decision. At best, he had a minute before they came downstairs and started combing deck eight. Ashton did not know what form any confrontation might take but he was certain that it would be unpleasant. The look on Killer’s face convinced him that it was best to avoid any showdown, especially at sea. He had heard too many stories growing up where scores were settled by sailors throwing their enemies overboard. He decided to head for the car deck.
It was a tortuous journey and he nearly fell down the stairs twice but, with difficulty, he reached the level where he’d parked. It was chained off with an ‘Authorised personnel only beyond this point’ sign. He passed through and hooked the chain back in place behind him.
Ashton felt nauseous, though he was unsure whether it was from the motion of the waves or the thought of trying to explain another coincidental meeting to men with bad attitudes and a paranoid mentality. He stepped out onto the car deck and threw up.
Vehicles were vibrating as the ship crested each wave and a loud hydraulic squeal made him cup his hands over his ears. He squatted behind a van whose cargo compartment bounced so hard that Ashton could not keep a handhold on it. He slipped and fell, cracking his knees on the floor. A car alarm went off, causing him to twitch in fright. He listened hard to hear whether his chasers had reached this level but the cacophony drowned out everything.
Peeking around the van, he saw the two men creeping carefully across the deck, looking down the lines of vehicles. Without a thought for his clothes, he dropped to the ground and squirmed under the truck. It was filthy and the underside of the van shuddered dangerously close to his face. The ship pitched sickeningly and he was scared the wheels might slide and crush him. More alarms went off and he fought the urge to panic.
A booming seaman’s voice raised itself above the racket. “You need to go upstairs,” it said. “You shouldn’t be here. It’s dangerous.” That only reassured Ashton slightly. He remained lying low for another 15 minutes.
The vessel began to steady. He realised that they must be inside the Calais breakwater and approaching the docks so he chanced a glimpse towards the staircase where he’d been sick. No one appeared to be around.
The next problem was what to do when people started returning to their cars. The ExSat pair would no doubt prowl the queues of vehicles to locate him. There would at least be plenty of witnesses. Then he had an idea. Ashton went to the Volvo and opened the tailgate. He climbed into the boot area, curled himself into a ball, pulled the fabric cover over to hide his body and eased the rear door down until it appeared to be closed. He settled in to wait.
It felt like hours. First, the ship shuddered to a halt. After that the voices of passengers returning to cars echoed off the ceilings. Finally, engines were fired up. Even so, he waited. Ashton wanted a clear run onto the exit ramp and did not plan to get caught up in stop-start traffic. Choosing his moment, he flipped the back door open, stooped low and darted round to the drivers’ door. He leapt in, turned the ignition and eased forward just as the car behind was trying to manoeuvre around the Volvo. Killer was standing as close to the exit ramp as possible and scowled when he saw his prey. He made a cutthroat gesture but Ashton ignored it and rolled on to dry land. “Fuck,” he said, not knowing whether to be elated or terrified.
To distract himself he turned on the radio to hear the latest political developments. He would be able to pick up the BBC for another half-hour until he turned south. “Put this out of your mind,” he said aloud. “Worry about these fellas when you get home. Think about the beer.” But his brain raced with fearful possibilities.
As he merged on to the A16 his fuel light came on. He was expecting it. Even with the pound desperately low, it was still cheaper to fill the tank in Belgium. The digital display on the dashboard said there was enough petrol for 50 miles. That was plenty.
Rain pounded against the windscreen but Ashton was beginning to recover his equilibrium. He loved the continent and particularly enjoyed the largely tourist-free part of West Flanders where he was heading. He stayed in the inside lane, moving out only to overtake lorries. Just outside Gravelines the weather eased and the sun came out. After passing a truck he checked his rear mirror and spotted a metallic grey Mercedes Sprinter panel van weaving in and out of traffic. Its driver was being a little too aggressive for the conditions. He guessed it was a local in a hurry. Then, as it approached, he saw that it had British plates. There were two men in the cockpit. He looked harder and thought he recognised the shape of their heads. “No, no, no, no, no,” he wailed and pressed on the accelerator. He was being hunted again. The milometer clicked over to 45.