The Planner (32 page)

Immediately afterwards, he fell asleep. Perhaps it was all the vodka cocktails or maybe, as he’d hoped all those months ago, with revelation so came peace. He slept deeply, without dreaming, but not for that long, as deciding when to wake up wasn’t his prerogative. It must have been no more than six hours later when another police officer opened the cell door.

‘Okay, you’re going to have to get out now. We need the cell for someone more important.’

James padded down the corridor in his socks, following the officer back to the front desk. His possessions were already waiting for him, in a neat little pile.

‘Is that it then? Is it all right for me to go?’

‘Yep, you can go for now. I’m sure we’ll call you back in here before long for a proper chat.’

He was, thought James, exactly what you’d want a London policeman to look like. He was big and black, with a wide smile and flat shiny nose.

‘So you’ll be charging me?’ said James, not entirely sure what that even meant.

‘We’ll give you a call. It depends if anyone wants to press charges and what the witnesses say. You may just get a caution. Although young Ravi might have something to say as well.’

‘Ravi?’

‘Ravinder. The officer you lamped. If he wants to take it up, then you’ll be in trouble. We don’t take that kind of thing lightly.’

No, James could see that. It wasn’t like working in town planning, there was solidarity here. The class system wasn’t going to do him any favours either. If he was an Etonian who had gone on the rampage at Oxford it might be a different matter. Plus, as ever, he was far too
old
– this had been a young man’s crime and might have been treated as one if he had in fact actually been a young man.

‘Don’t worry too much. We’ve got enough going on. Come back as soon as we call you, say sorry, bring flowers and a box of chocolates. It’s not up to me, but I’m pretty sure you’ll just get a caution and that will be the end of it.

James put his shoes on and left the police station. He was, he had to admit, completely satisfied with the level of service he had received. The cell might have been small but it was clean, and the officers had been well mannered and highly trained. He felt the early morning sun and the air and his spirits, exhausted as they were, gave a little surge. He couldn’t quite understand why he didn’t feel much worse than he did. He was on Stoke Newington High Street, and he knew that somewhere not all that far away must be his favourite sex club, but the only geographic landmark he could recognise was the sun, plump and warm as it rose above the City of London. He started to walk towards it, southwards, towards Southwark. He was, despite all that had happened, not without hope.

He turned his phone on. There was nothing from Felix but there was a text message from Harriet, sent just before midnight: ‘That was a bit mad! What happened to you? Hope things okay xx’. He sent a message back: ‘I’ve just got out of police station. Are you ok? Where did you go?’

If nothing else, she ought to be impressed with that. He had, after all, spent a night in a police cell and he had done it for her. That was quite a gesture – heroic even, by modern standards. But when the phone rang in his hand ten seconds later, it wasn’t Harriet. It was Rachel.

‘Jesus Christ. You’re in so much fucking shit it’s almost unbelievable.’

16

29 March

The decisions we make about our city now will shape the quality of life of those who come after us and their view of how successful we have been in our stewardship of the city.

–
The London Plan
, Section 1.56

‘I could go into a lot of detail, and if you want me to I will, and we’ll get someone from HR here. But there are essentially two ways to do this. You can resign now, and I’ll look out for you as best I can, or we can fight each other for the next six weeks. In which case, make no mistake, I will completely fuck you.’

It was nine o’clock, and James was in Lionel’s office, much like any other morning. Rachel was there as well – for, in accordance with Southwark Council disciplinary procedures policy, he had been allowed to take one other colleague with him. But so far, the only person to have really said anything was Lionel.

‘Bear in mind, I’ll have the entire organisation behind me. I’ve already had the chief exec on the phone. He wants your head.’

Lionel was incapable of ferocity – as with so much else, his talents in this regard had been spent a long time ago. The best he could do now, the most fearsome thing he could do, was to speak in a certain gruff style as if he was a man who was always sure of himself. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t cross.

‘Surely you can’t just fire me for this?’

‘Christ no,’ said Rachel. ‘This is the public sector. You have to practically commit homicide before that happens.’

‘Nobody’s talking about you getting fired. Let’s try not to use that word. But understand that you still have to go.’

‘But it’s not as if I did this in the course of work. I was at an art gallery, it wasn’t a public consultation or anything.’

James turned to Rachel. The drugs had left his body, he was reasonably confident about that, but the problem was, they had taken all the good things with them: nutrients and vitamins, brain chemicals, white blood cells, possibly his soul. As a result, one of his greatest powers, the ability to listen and concentrate in meetings, had deserted him. That was a shame, because it was probably the most important one he had ever been in.

‘James has got a point. But I know what you’re going to say. Somewhere in section five of his contract it will state: “Any officer who conducts himself in a manner which in the reasonable opinion of Southwark Council’s executive management brings himself or the organisation into disrepute or threatens the good standing of .
.
. blah blah blah.”
’

‘That’s exactly right. Look, we can go legal if you force me, and we can have it out. But, like I said, it will end up hurting James more than it does us.’

It wasn’t wholly clear if Rachel was representing his best interests or not in these negotiations, or in fact if they really were negotiations – after all, the major decision didn’t seem to be up for debate. Instead, Lionel and Rachel began to discuss his leaving terms. He could always have called the trade union, but rather unwisely, not long after Felix had told him they were a twentieth-century relic, he had stopped paying his subscription.

‘So if he resigns now, he could still get his three months’ notice?’

‘I’d have to talk to HR to get it confirmed, but it shouldn’t be a problem.’

‘And you wouldn’t want him to actually work that period out?’

‘No. Nobody wants him to still be in the office by the end of the day.’

‘Maybe he could work from home?’

‘I don’t really think that would work. I think it’s best if he just goes. As long as his files are all in good order, then we don’t have to worry about a handover or anything.’

‘And what about a reference? You’ll still give him one, right? He’s going to need that whatever happens.’

There was a pause, which James didn’t like in the least bit. He wanted very much for this to end. If he could just get out and sit down on his own for a while, he might be able to heal and to think. In fact, what he could really do with right now was to have his prison cell back.

‘James,’ said Lionel. ‘Can I have a word with you on your own – without Rachel?’

James nodded. There seemed little point or scope for refusing. Rachel began to say something, thought better of it and quietly left the room.

‘Lionel, I’m really sorry about what’s happened.’

He tried to hold Lionel’s gaze. As ever, James was stooping his shoulders, but now it was being done out of submission rather than kindness. Lionel looked as if he was thinking hard, but it was James’s impression that he was simply waiting for an interval to pass, so that when he did speak the force would be all the greater.

‘The problem is,’ said Lionel, at last. ‘I don’t even want to save you.’

‘Lionel, I’m really sorry.’

‘Are you aware of how much trouble you’ve caused me?’

‘I know, I know. I’m so very sorry.’

‘I’m not even talking about your antics last night.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You’ve been speaking with developers, haven’t you?’

‘No. Well – yes, you know we all deal with them. It’s part of the job sometimes.’

‘You’ve been speaking to Simon Galbraith.’

His body had been empty, but now James could feel it softly filling up again with something. He wasn’t sure what. It felt like cold morphine, the opposite of adrenalin, something that made him congested and slow-moving.

‘Yes, I met him at a football match not long ago.’

‘You just met him once?’

‘Well, once or twice. I met him another time as well.’

Thinking on your feet, making stuff up, lying – it was something that people in the private sector were so much better at. James’s body had gone cold, but his head was hot – prickly, as if exposed to a great heat – and he didn’t know what to do with his eyes. Lionel, on the other hand, had rarely looked calmer.

‘How do you know I met Simon? Have you been speaking to him?’

‘Oh, I know Simon Galbraith. I’ve known him for years. I know him so well that he gave me a friendly call two days ago to tell me what a nice, ambitious young man you are, how helpful you’ve been, but that he was a bit concerned with how open you were about various matters – so much so, that he was wondering if he ought to mention it to a senior council member whom he happens to know.’

‘But why did he do that? I don’t understand,’ said James, although it was all too clear what had happened. He’d been fucked over – by the richest and most charming man he had ever met.

‘Because he’s a
developer
. He’s a bastard. And he wants very much to do things in this borough, which means that he wants to stay friendly with me. Unless you could have been more valuable to him than my goodwill, then you were fucked.’

‘I didn’t really tell him anything he didn’t know already. Honestly I didn’t.’

Lionel decided not to say anything for a while. He looked around the room airily – another gimmick, just like his melodramatic pauses. Was it possible that he was enjoying this? Lionel, so ineffective in all those meetings, was good at something after all. He was good at sacking people.

‘You know, he’s always asking me to go to the football with him. Either that or it’s Wimbledon or the theatre or something. That’s how these people work. Once you owe them something, you’re in trouble. Once you enjoyed his hospitality and wanted to please him he had you. And, do you know what’s really bloody annoying? Because of you, now I
do
owe him something.’

‘So is that really why I’m going? I’ve worked here for nearly four years, and I’m going to have to leave for saying some things to a developer who I barely know?’

‘No, not really. You were probably fucked anyway. Your nonsense last night saw to that. You’ve lost your job. What I’m telling you now is that you’ve screwed your career as well. You won’t get a reference from me. You could have been a good planner. But I think you’re going to have to do something else now.’

It had never been difficult to pity Lionel – he was, after all, pitiful. And if he could pity him then James had thought that, when the time came, he could destroy him, he could replace him. Not for what he’d done, but for what he was – for what he was like, for his non-aerodynamic personality, corduroy hair, brown shoes and 1970s accent. He was called Lionel, and he wasn’t even Jewish. But it wasn’t going to work out that way after all. It was Lionel who was going to destroy him.

‘You better clear your desk,’ said Lionel. ‘We can sort everything else out later, but I think you better just go now. You’ll get your three months. Someone from HR will be in touch with you.’

That was it. His last ever meeting at Southwark Council was over and, for once, it hadn’t overrun. James got up to go. Lionel had already turned away, and was pretending to do something on his computer.

Rachel was waiting in the corridor. He looked at her with trepidation and a sudden gust of hope. Would she save him somehow? Was that still possible? No, of course not – and it wasn’t just that Rachel couldn’t help him, she
wouldn’t
. He could see that. And maybe she was right not to. She was looking at him curiously but not tenderly, her arms folded and with an authoritarian plumpness around her mouth.

‘You didn’t hear any of that did you?’ said James.

‘Believe me, I was desperately trying. What did he say?’

James shook his head. ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’

‘No, I can imagine. But I’m guessing you fucked up even more than I thought you did.’

It was such a shame, what had happened. It wasn’t a tragedy, it probably wasn’t even an injustice – it was simply a shame. Every life gets the disaster it deserves and his was a small one, for he had lived his life without any great scale. But, and this was the point, his capacity to withstand it was also small. The character and defences to protect him from what had happened were even less than his misfortune.