White Deception

1. Auflage 2024
ISBN: 978-1-78864-880-6
Verlag: Cinnamon Press
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 0 - No protection

E-Book, Englisch, 330 Seiten

In an embattled world can integrity trump corruption? Hungover and tired after a month doing business in Tirana, and needing to lie low following a threat to his life, Nicholas Wyndham assumes the identity on a placard held up in the arrivals hall at Heathrow. This chance-act, with its ensuing web of deceit, ensnares not only Nicholas, but also Natasha, the young activist who meets him at the airport, and all those around them-with life-changing consequences. Moving across England, Wales, Albania and Denmark, and set against the backdrop of the British General Election of 1997, and the public desire to replace a government beset by allegations of sleaze and incompetence with a fresh and optimistic administration, Deception is a timely exploration of what we mean by power, class, corruption, identity and truth. A compelling story of the potential of the human spirit.

After completing a Chemistry degree at the University of York, Roger went into the field of education. A keen interest in the interface of science, creative arts and politics is reflected in a number of seminal educational books, including In and Out of School (with Dave Brockington), The School of Tomorrow, and The ASDAN Story, plus a regular newspaper column since 2010. Roger is married, with three grown-up children, and lives and works in Bristol. Degrees of Separation was his first published novel.

Autoren/Hrsg.

White, Roger

Leseproben

Destination unknown

Wednesday evening April 30th, 1997

By the time the silver Audi joined the queue of traffic to Heathrow’s underpass, Nicholas knew her name was Natasha, that she’d grown up in Yorkshire, inter-railed in Europe to watch the sun rise over the Acropolis and the dancing wraiths of the Aurora at midnight in Troms, before reading Psychology at Warwick university—but never visited America. She had nearly given up waiting at the point he stepped forward.

He'd had time to study her as the driver put his luggage into the boot. She was five-foot seven or eight. Below a high forehead her blue eyes were keen and watchful, and he wondered if the flaxen hair hinted at Scandinavian ancestry. With her profile, he imagined her on the prow of a Viking ship, breasting the swell of the North Sea. Silver earrings brushed the edge of her silk headscarf. There was no trace of makeup.

Natasha was sitting beside him on the back seat, twisting the silver bracelet on her wrist. In front the driver was humming to the radio. Nicholas registered the neatly-shaved hairline above the man’s wide ears and muscular neck. Natasha had introduced him as Samson. Was that a nickname? He judged him to be mid-fifties when he’d watched him stow the bags.

The car accelerated towards the motorway and Natasha adjusted her seatbelt. “I thought I’d missed you, because the six thirty from Kennedy landed earlier than scheduled. Were you held up for ages in customs?” The vowel in ‘up’ sounded more like ‘book’.

“Mine was the last suitcase on the carousel.” Nicholas ran his fingers through his hair, flattening the black spikes that had ruffled as they’d walked to the car park. His hand brushed his cheek, and he caught the antiseptic smell on the lint bandage. At least he was leaving behind the duplicitous world that had cost him a pint of blood.

Nicholas was conscious of a heady exhilaration, blowing away the cloud of ennui that had settled after landing. It was the high of the blackjack table, all to play for and all to lose. He must have pitched the accent correctly, but who was Schreiber? And where were they going—and what for? A celebrity function in a smart London hotel would be pretty good. Certainly better than meeting anyone Elvana might have sent after him.

Nicholas wondered if Natasha expected him to hand something over. Was that the point of the question about customs? He mused about the street value of a suitcase of cocaine. He glanced at her. She didn’t seem like a gangster’s moll. But she didn’t seem dressed for a celebrity event either.

Blue eyes returned his gaze. “You’re younger than I expected.”

“Sorry to disappoint.” Nicholas continued to stretch his accent.

“Having read your books, I assumed you’d be a grey-haired professor with spectacles.” Her fingers played with the ends of her scarf.

Nicholas hesitated, grateful for the enlightening cards flying across the green baize of the gaming table. He framed his response carefully. “Intellectual exercise with young minds keeps you on your toes—especially if the students are basketball players!” He caught the hint of a smile. In front, Samson was tapping his fingers on the steering wheel in time to the saxophone. He flicked the indicator and Nicholas noticed the car heading down the westbound carriageway of the motorway.

Natasha turned; fine cheekbones lit by the sinking sun breaking through rain clouds. “I found Rude Boys inspirational. Better than anything else I’ve read on the subject.”

Nicholas said nothing. Was she talking about pornography? Some gay icon perhaps? The seat belt pressed against her chest, accentuating the contours beneath a patterned blouse.

“I was surprised at the parallels you drew with the UK, because I thought American and British school experiences were poles apart.” Natasha paused, and it seemed to Nicholas she was pondering her own observation. “Have you worked in both countries?”

Nicholas chose his words. “I taught at Cambridge for a while…”

The eight o’clock pips interrupted the conversation.

“On the last day of the campaign, John Major has returned to his Huntingdon constituency and Tony Blair to Sedgefield. Both leaders have spent the final twenty-four hours on a whistlestop tour of key marginals. Pollsters are predicting a high turnout will sweep the Labour Party back into power after eighteen years in the wilderness…”

The radio announcement and protective dusk gave Nicholas time to gather his thoughts. Professor of Education then? He dredged through his recollections of educational policy since leaving school. The government had changed in his first year at university. Some bloke with two first names had taken charge of schools. There was a lot of fuss about a national curriculum and tests, and helping poor children into public schools. He registered a change of voice on the radio. The broadcaster was interviewing a leading minister in the Conservative cabinet.

“I hope the bastards are ground into extinction.” Natasha’s interjection startled Nicholas, who’d never taken politics seriously enough to trigger an emotional reaction. Every election since he was eighteen had simply been an opportunity to make money. He’d bet half his term’s grant on Thatcher in May 1979 and won three hundred pounds, which he blew the following night at Delancey’s. He’d repeated the success four years later, although the odds were shorter because of the Falklands’ victory. 1992 had seen the biggest scoop. He’d placed three grand the day before the election, when the odds against Major had lengthened to 4-1. Twelve hours later, after Kinnock’s performance in Sheffield, it had shifted back to 5-4.

Together with James and Csilla, and her friend Zsuzsanna, they’d worked through a box of Fosters, watching Peter Snow’s excitement match the movement of his swingometer. At the point the Conservatives secured a majority, Nicholas staggered to the all-night off-licence on the Wandsworth Road and returned with two magnums of Moet. Although the bottles had set him back a hundred quid, by the time they’d sprayed the girls, he didn’t care. The taste of champagne was as sweet as the thought of the scoop at the bookies.

“It’s a last chance to rekindle hope for a fairer society.” Natasha shifted on the seat, and he caught a trace of perfume. The deep well of blackness in the centre of her eyes shone with the intensity of conviction. “Do you think we could repair the rot from decades of Tory neglect?”

Nicholas hesitated, knowing he’d put ten thousand at 3-1 on another Major victory before flying to Tirana. How might Professor Schreiber respond? He remembered the posters from the Conservative campaign the year he’d placed his first bet, depicting the rubbish in the streets and the line of depressed characters in the dole queue. ‘Labour isn’t working.’ That image had persuaded him to back the Tories. Nicholas struggled to understand how any sane person could support a political party that wanted to increase taxes for people working their socks off, while subsidising scroungers on council estates and building extra nurseries for their feral kids. Labour’s plans for a minimum wage and national insurance would bankrupt employers, alongside commitments to spend billions on hospitals and schools for losers who couldn’t be bothered to save for private provision.

Natasha clearly believed the socialist claptrap. Was Schreiber giving support to a group of subversives in England? Nicholas weighed his words. “Sometimes I wonder whether governments make much difference.”

“But who could want these shysters in office for another moment?” Natasha was insistent. “So much damage, deceit, corruption. Cash for questions was just the iceberg. They deserve a month in the stocks before exile to Rockall. Or maybe somewhere more secure abroad. Could you reopen Alcatraz?” Her nostrils flared.

“I agree about corruption being rife.” Nicholas was relieved that Natasha didn’t respond with another tirade. He noticed her left hand slowly turning the bracelet. There was no ring on the index finger. In the silence Nicholas wondered again where they were going. Maybe there was an Irish connection, and they were heading towards the ferry ports in Wales? That would make sure the Albanian trail went cold. “How long to go?”

Natasha pursed her lips, allowing the lock of hair to fall onto her shoulder. “Could be three or four hours, depending on traffic once we’re over the bridge.”

Nicholas presumed she meant the Severn as they were passing signs to Reading. Samson was doing a steady eighty down the middle lane. Fishguard would fit with that sort of timescale. Of course, whenever they stopped, he could vanish into the gloom of a wet evening, although judging by the thick-veined neck of the driver, it might be tricky to extract the bags from the boot.

He pushed the thoughts to one side. It could yet be a VIP reception. A hotel in Swansea tonight and an event in the morning? To ward off further discussion about politics, he took the initiative with questions to Natasha.

Before Membury Services he knew she was twenty-seven, had grown up in Hebden Bridge as an only child, and completed her A levels at the local comprehensive. After an extended gap-year that had taken her round Australia and Asia, she’d ended up working in an orphanage in Sri Lanka. Nicholas didn’t ask about her current job, because he presumed Schreiber would know this, but he did elicit that she sang in a choir, went skydiving and took...