A Conspiracy of Friends (17 page)

He moved forwards in the darkness, more slowly now as the tunnel roof grew lower at this point and pressed upon his shoulders and his back. After a few minutes during which he made very little progress, the urge to get back to the light and fresh air became stronger than the urge to find the rabbits. He stopped, and tried to turn round; of course, there was no room, not even enough to make the slightest turn. He tried again, but succeeded only in wedging himself still more tightly in the constricted space.

Next, Freddie de la Hay tried to move backwards. This proved every bit as impossible as turning. He paused, and the realisation dawned on him that something was seriously wrong. He closed his
eyes and then reopened them, in the hope that he might simply find himself elsewhere. Such rapid and inexplicable transitions could occur; he had once been in a train and had closed his eyes, gone to sleep, and then when he awoke discovered himself in an entirely different place. If such a thing could happen once, then there was no reason why it should not happen again.

But it did not, and on opening his eyes he was in exactly the same place. Now he began to whimper, and these whimpers, soft at first, became louder and louder until they were a full-blown wail. Freddie was not only bemoaning his fate, he was calling for William. In his mind, William was all-powerful and perfectly capable of bringing his durance to an end. William would come, would come down from above, would come with shovels, would come to pluck him from this earthly tomb. William would brush the earth from his coat, take him in his arms and tell him that he was a good dog and that dinner would be ready shortly, would let him be with him, which was all that Freddie had ever wanted, and what he wanted now with all his heart.

But there was no William. There was only darkness and discomfort, and a sense that whatever was happening to him was something final and irreparable. This thing was the death that every creature so instinctively resists. Freddie de la Hay had no word for it, but knew its face, and knew that it was his companion in this subterranean prison. He whimpered, and instinctively licked at his paw, which was tucked up unnaturally under his chin, forced into that position by his attempts to turn round. He licked at his paw as if to comfort himself, but there was no comfort for him, none at all, just a growing terror.

I
T WAS TERROR
that eventually drove Freddie de la Hay to start digging again. He had no alternative but to go forwards, and he did so now with fervent energy, scratching with all his power at the yielding earth, ignoring the showers of debris that covered his head and neck. He closed his eyes; he struggled to breathe; he was as a creature possessed, acquiring from deep within him the strength and determination of ten dogs or more.

For the first few minutes, he made little progress. The ground seemed harder now, and his claws sent stabs of pain shooting up his legs; he ignored the pains, redoubling his efforts when he suddenly felt the ground become more yielding. And then the wall of the tunnel gave way and opened out into a chamber. Freddie de la Hay opened his eyes and saw, at the end of the chamber, a shaft leading upwards. And from this came the smell of fresh air, of grass, of creatures other than rabbits.

Freddie shot forwards, at first entangling and then disentangling himself from a hanging skein of roots. His paws were painful and there was grit in his nostrils, but he ignored these discomforts in the urgency of his efforts. There was light now—not bright light, but a filtered sort of gloaming, a vague glow. He scrabbled frantically, pushing with his hind legs, wiggling to give himself extra purchase on the soft floor of the chamber. He could still smell rabbits, but he ignored them, yearning only to break free and emerge from the nightmare into which he had so foolishly launched himself.

That is not to say, though, that Freddie de la Hay felt any inclination to reproach himself. The past for a dog is just that: the past. A dog sees no point in dwelling on things that have happened; the
important thing is that they are not happening now. In that respect, they have something to teach us: we so often feel that then is now, and this leads us to prolong the suffering of yesterday into the suffering of today. Dogs do not do that.

With a final effort, Freddie pushed himself up through the gradually widening opening above his head. He was free, and the sudden evening light made him blink in confusion. Without thinking, he set off across the field in which he found himself as fast as he could manage, giving several exultant barks as he did so. He did not stop until he reached the far side, where a thick hedge blocked further progress. He sat down momentarily, looked up at the sky and then gave another bark before launching himself through a gap he had just spotted in the hedge.

Now he was on a road—one of those small, winding roads that seem to go nowhere in particular but in fact connect village to village, in their own time. Freddie had no idea where he was, nor did he know where he was going. He trotted along, from time to time sniffing at the verge; not unhappy, perhaps, but not happy either.

There was a noise that he registered as an approaching car. Freddie cocked an ear, listening to see whether he recognised the note of the engine. He did not, and he sat down to wait for the noise to become louder.

There was the squeal of brakes, followed by the sound of a car door opening.

“You silly dog!”

It was a woman.

“Yes, you! I’m not talking to any other dogs—I’m addressing you! You silly, silly dog, sitting there in the road like that. I had to brake, you know, and if I’d been going any faster I would have run over you.”

Freddie looked at the woman who had stepped out of the car.
He realised that what she had to say concerned him, but he had no idea what it was. The word “dog,” however, was familiar, and he knew that this, in some vague way, referred to him. It was not his name, of course, but it was close to it, and he wagged his tail in response.

The woman bent down to look more closely at Freddie. “You’re wearing a collar, I see. Let me take a look.”

Freddie allowed the stranger to turn the collar round his neck so that the nameplate, a small steel tag, could be read.

“Freddie de la Hay,” she read aloud. “Now that is very interesting. Are you, I wonder, Freddie de la Hay—an unlikely name for a dog, I’d have thought—or do you belong to somebody called Freddie de la Hay?”

She straightened up, still gazing down on Freddie.

“Freddie!” she called out.

Freddie looked up sharply and gave a bark of recognition.

“That settles that,” said the woman. “So you’re Freddie de la Hay.” She paused. “Well, Freddie de la Hay, you’re clearly lost and so I suppose …” She looked about her, scanning the fields that bordered the road. Although the light was fading, it was clear that there was nobody to be seen. “I suppose I can’t leave you here. So … come along, Freddie de la Hay. Hop in.”

She clicked her fingers and began to make her way towards the open door of the car. Freddie immediately understood what was intended and obediently trotted past her, peered into the car and jumped inside. The woman settled herself in the driver’s seat and slammed the door shut.

This was the signal for Freddie, seated in the passenger seat beside her, to do as he had been trained during his period of indoctrination as a “new dog.” Half turning in his seat, he took the seatbelt in his mouth and drew it across his front. Then nuzzling the red clip at the side of the seat, he pressed the metal connector home.

The woman watched in astonishment.

“Did you just strap yourself in?” she stuttered. “Did I see what I think I saw?”

Freddie smiled at her, his pink tongue hanging out of the side of his mouth. A small stream of saliva dropped down onto the seat. He bent his head apologetically, licked up the spittle and then turned to face his new friend once more.

“Amazing …,” she muttered, slipping the car into gear. “Let’s go, Freddie de la Hay!”

I
F
F
REDDIE WAS
about to venture into the unknown, then so too was Barbara Ragg. What she did next was nothing to do with her recent discovery of her gypsy roots, although that revelation had certainly left her feeling quite light-headed; this, rather, was the result of the decision she had already taken to bring Oedipus Snark’s political career to an end. Or, if she could not end it entirely, then she could at least lead it down an alley from which it might never emerge. She had not discussed this plan with anybody—she did not want to talk to Hugh about a former boyfriend—and so she had received no advice about it. Had she sought such counsel, of course, it might well have urged caution: Oedipus Snark was a formidable opponent with a reputation for the ruthless pursuit of self-interest; not for nothing, people said, was he known as the only nasty Lib Dem MP in recent history. But now it was too late for such reservations, and even though the journalist to whom she had spoken warned her of the possible consequences, she felt that she had gone too far to back-track.

The journalist she had approached was a client of the Ragg Porter Agency. Tom Maxwell was the deputy editor of a popular daily, and a widely read political columnist. Some years earlier he had uncovered a circle of influential freemasons who had been using connections to secure contracts. He had published a book on the subject, which had led to parliamentary questions and an official inquiry. He had used the Ragg Porter Agency to negotiate publication, and it was in this context that he had come across Barbara. They got on well, and she had even wondered at one point if their friendship might become something more. But Tom was not interested; there was somebody, she found out—a woman in Amsterdam whom he had known for years and with whom he lived sporadically. Barbara’s being aware of this woman at least made things easier for her; she could meet Tom and enjoy his friendship without the complication that romantic possibility inserts into any relationship.

They met early one morning in a coffee bar off Brook Street. Tom had an interview to conduct at the Dorchester—he was due to talk to a visiting German businessman who was circling an ailing drinks company and whose real intentions had yet to be uncovered.

“There’s a possibility that he would just close it down,” he said. “It would be one way of knocking out the competition.”

“And throw how many people out of work?” asked Barbara.

Tom shrugged. “Three hundred, give or take a few.”

“Awful,” said Barbara.

Tom sighed. “Yes, but that’s capitalism for you. Money doesn’t sit in a hole, you know.”

“And what does that mean?”

“It means that money has to work, or it’s not doing its job. And being used to buy things—including companies—is part of that work.”

Barbara did not approve. “And one just ignores the human consequences?”

Tom sighed again. “One does not ignore them. One can lament them, but ultimately money has its own logic. Ultimately, it finds the most fruitful place to be and it flows in that direction. It’s the way of the world, Barbara.”

Barbara stared into her coffee. “I thought that the whole point about civilised capitalism was that you brought money under control—you stopped it behaving ruthlessly. Can’t we do that?”

Tom smiled. “People try. You may recall that unions which have attempted to resist the force of economics have a tendency to find themselves without an industry to control. Remember coal? And that was before full-scale globalisation. Now …” He made a gesture of helplessness. “If unions put up their costs too much, economic activity simply migrates. And there’s always somebody to do things more cheaply than we can. China. You know what it’s like.”

She nodded. “Yes, but listen, I didn’t plan to meet you to talk about economics. I wanted to give you something. Some information.” She glanced about her, to check whether anybody might overhear.

“You look very sweet when you clutch your cloak and dagger,” said Tom, smiling.

“Don’t patronise me,” she muttered.

“Sorry. So what is it? Remember that I’m really a columnist these days. I’m no Bob Woodward.”

“Oedipus Snark,” said Barbara simply.

Tom frowned, as if trying to remember something. “Snark? The junior minister for …”

Barbara named the ministry, and Tom nodded. “Ridiculous-sounding name. Not my favourite member of the House of Commons, if the truth be told.”

“That’s what I want,” said Barbara. “I want the truth to be told.”

Tom broke into a wry smile. “Don’t we all?” He looked at her quizzically. “Do you know something about our friend Mr. Snark?
You know him?” He paused. “Hold on, weren’t you … close friends for a while?”

“Yes.”

He raised an eyebrow. “If this is some sort of exercise in revenge, Barbara … That’s not what newspapers are for, you know.”

“I thought that was exactly what they did,” replied Barbara.

“Some of them, maybe. But not ours.”

“Ah, I see! Too high-minded?”

“Something like that,” said Tom.

For a few moments they looked at one another in silence. Then Barbara said, “I won’t say that I bear Oedipus Snark no ill will. I do. I bear him a great deal of ill will.”

“Hell hath no fury—” Tom began.

She cut him off. “I asked you not to patronise, Tom. You have no idea what transpired between Oedipus and me. You really haven’t.”

“All right. It wasn’t good. So?”

“I want to stop him,” she said. “Not because of what he did to me, but because of what he might do in power. I just can’t bear the thought of Oedipus being anywhere
near
power.”

Tom took out a small notebook. “You do realise what you’re doing, Barbara?”

“Yes.”

“I’m not so sure. People think that they’re safe in this country, that nobody could ever have them … harmed. Well, I’ve seen that this is not true at all. There are plenty of people who come to a sticky end because they’ve taken on people in power—or people who have money. Same thing, really. Money and power occupy the same bed.”