Chapter 7: Retribution

November 1973, age 18

November has to be the worst month of the year. The clocks have changed, so the days are shorter, and the weather is invariably miserable. Add to that the funeral of my best friend’s mum, and it became the antithesis of the season of cheer.

Kelly Redpath’s funeral took place at Morden crematorium, not far from home (which we had now re-occupied after extensive building work). Harry seemed numb, understandably. I’d been in his shoes and knew how he felt. The police had interviewed him prior to the funeral about his mum selling me out. That muddied his feelings into an ugly mess of grief, anger and fear. In no way did I hold him responsible, and repeatedly tried to hammer that into his head.

When we were alone at the end of the funeral day, he commented, “Well, I guess I really am alone now. At least I won’t have to tell ‘er ‘bout me bein’ a poof.”

“29th of April, 1965”, I said with seeming randomness.

“You wha’?”

“29th of April, 1965. You remember that day?”

“No, why? Wait — were that the day we first met?”

“Nearly. It was the day before, the day that my parents were killed. That was the last day you were truly alone, ya daft wazzock!” I should have punched him for discounting me. Instead, he got my arm around his shoulders.

The following day, Dan and I had a private chat in the safe-room.

I started by asking, “How the hell did we not see this coming? We have access to future history, and we have Grandpa actually in the future communicating back. I don’t get how things like this can still come along to surprise us.”

“You’ve no idea how many times I’ve thought about this”, he answered. “The short answer is that history isn’t written until it happens. The books on the iPad adapt after events happen, but they don’t anticipate. Case in point: Operation Red-Rising. You’ve given orders to disrupt the formation of The Derg in Ethiopia. Actions will follow from those orders, but the history books haven’t changed, and they won’t until the events take place in February. Just the same, any reference to Kelly Redpath in the history books would not have mentioned her untimely death until she actually died. Do you see?”

I nodded. I always got a headache when thinking about temporal mechanics.

Dan continued, “Then you have to consider that most of the world’s daily occurrences don’t rate an entry in history. And things that are secret would be deliberately kept out. Kelly, God love her, was pretty insignificant in the grand scheme of things, and her leaking has been kept quiet. Which book on the iPad would have given us advanced warning?”

“Point taken”, I begrudged.

“And your grandfather, as I understand it, isn’t in the future exactly. More like he’s skipping over parts of our present. He writes his letters based on what he knows from his life experiences and any news he can catch up on in each time-period. I’m not sure how he could predict things like this that are changes in the timeline. He doesn’t have a crystal ball.”

“Could he not do a long jump into the future to see what happens, then come back to give us warnings?”

Dan thought before he answered. “Yes I’m sure he could, but that’s not what he’s currently doing, and it could be disastrous to ask him to change his plans. Altering his future could change our past. Assume that he is off time-travelling for a block of his finite life-span. Asking him to do more while he’s away would take longer, and presumably leave him less time with us after he returned. He could even die in the future, rather than with us in our past. God knows what effect that would have. Do you see the problem?”

How I loathe temporal mechanics.

The police and MI5 were doing a thorough job of investigating the dead middle-man who had coordinated the attacks on us. According to Sir Edward, there wasn’t much point in us running a competing investigation. And if we tried, it could put important noses out of joint. So we left it to the experts, and I concentrated on getting settled into what would be my new weekly routine.

Commuting into central London for work got old very quickly. The journey took 45 minutes at best, double if the traffic was bad. And it was often bad. I went to the office all day Mondays, plus Tuesday and Thursday mornings. Thursday afternoons I had helicopter lessons, which terrified me. And on Fridays, I went to Gatwick to work for British Caledonian, flying whichever short-haul routes they sent me on (usually Scotland, Belfast, Paris or Amsterdam).

I also had to fit in my ‘weekend warrior’ duty at RAF Lyneham, home of the Hercules. It was a good two-hour drive to Lyneham, so I struck a deal with my Squadron Leader whereby I would report for duty early Wednesday mornings and be released by 4pm so I could get home at a reasonable hour. That meant spending Tuesday nights at a hotel in Swindon, but it left my weekends free to fly up to Donington and Sheffield. It also made me popular with my instructors who wanted to avoid weekends too.

The Hercules training squadron — 242 OCU — was officially based at RAF Thorney Island, down near Portsmouth. That’s where the newly qualified pilots got trained on the basics of a multi-engine plane. But that wasn’t me. The C-130 Hercules was a similar scale to the BAC one-eleven airliner that I flew as a co-pilot on Fridays. The Herc was slower, heavier, shorter range, had four props instead of two jets, and had a tail ramp to throw out people and kit in mid-air. But other than that, it wasn’t a dissimilar flying experience to an airliner, so they constructed a bespoke training plan for me at Lyneham. Anyone who tells you that size isn’t everything is a bloody liar! The Hercules, also known as ‘Fat Albert’, is a beast! But I still wanted to work up to flying a jumbo.

My first week back at the office was spent catching up and approving several new projects. One of those was the design for a new company yacht. I had been joking (mainly) when I told Dan a while back to ‘pull his finger out’ and get us a yacht, but he explained to me that the idea made sense on several levels. For privacy, paparazzi would find it a lot harder to sneak up on us while on holiday if we were mobile. And a yacht was a status symbol — other companies had yachts so we should too. Plus, we could rent it out for most of the year when it wasn’t needed, recovering some of the cost.

My second Monday afternoon at the office was interrupted by Freya and a shocking piece of news. “Er, Finn, I’ve just had a call from the house. Everyone’s alright, but I think you’d better get home. Someone from social services is there, about Caity.”

I shot to my feet and yelled: “DAAAAAAN!” I then picked up the phone and dialled Ed’s extension. Looking at the clock, I noted that Caity would be home from school by now. When he picked up, I ordered, “It’s Finn — deploy the reaction team to the house immediately. Barricade the front gate. Nobody is to get in or out without my say so, especially the police. I’m about to head home, so they’d better be there when I arrive!” I slammed the phone down without waiting for an answer and glared at Dan who had entered in a hurry.

“What’s going on?”, he asked urgently.

“Social services are trying to take Caity! Get on to Whitehall. Warn them that if they want to take her, they’ll need an army battalion to get past our guys, and there’ll be a shooting war on the streets of Wimbledon! It’ll also mean the end of Editor. And if they’ve already taken Caity by the time we get there, I swear to God I will fire every single person in this building, starting with you!”

I stormed past Dan and out of my office, Ewan waiting outside and following me. I spent the journey home plotting Armageddon scenarios, up to and including an armed assault on wherever they took Caity, and reprisals against the government. There were a few MPs we had dirt on, so that would be a start. Full-page attack ads in newspapers were simple, and I wondered what it would take to swing the necessary sixteen Tory MPs into supporting a no-confidence vote to bring down the government.

I got home expecting to find some horrific scene of my sister being dragged off kicking and screaming. What I actually found was a grey-haired lady sat at our kitchen table with a cup of tea, chatting with Mrs O’Keef like old friends. When she spotted me, Mrs O said, “Ah, Finn, come and meet Mrs Burton from social services”, in a ‘nothing to worry about’ tone of voice.

As we shook hands, Mrs Burton told me, “I’m pleased to meet you, Mr Harrison”.

I couldn’t help but reply, “Please don’t take this personally, but I can’t say the same to you”.

Mrs O’Keef admonished me with a shocked: “Finnley Harrison!”

But our visitor shushed her with a wave of her hand and told me, “I quite understand. It goes with the job. At least you were polite about it. Is there somewhere we might talk privately?”

I led her to the study, feeling Mrs O’s glare from behind me.

Once we had sat, I tried to put her on the back foot by asking, “So, how does it feel to be used as part of a conspiracy against my family?”

She cocked her head and asked, “A conspiracy?”

“Yes. Media attacks going back several years and the bomb attack last summer were all coordinated by one person, who is presumably behind whatever caused your visit today.” No need to mention that the middle-man was dead.

“And why would someone do that?”

“Money”, I replied bluntly. “Big, big money at multi-national corporation level. That’s why the government is involved. You are being used as a pawn in an attack on our national security.”

She didn’t bat an eyelid. “I simply go where I’m told. But if someone is trying to be devious by having your sister removed from the home, they’ve failed. I’ve found no serious problems here.”

That floored me. “Oh. Well ... that’s good.”

She smirked. “Perhaps now it’s nice to meet me?” She seemed to enjoy watching my face redden. “I do have one or two questions. In August, a newspaper implied that your sister was sexually active. When I asked her, she told me it was none of my business.”

“Good for her”, I interrupted.

She gave me a stern look over the rim of her glasses and continued, “You approve of her relationship with...” she checked her notes, “Simon Caws?”

“I do. They’ve known each other for nearly ten years, and he’s a good kid. I’m not confirming or denying they’re having sex, but I wouldn’t be worried if they were. My sister is a strong character: nobody pushes her about! And if they are doing it, I’d much rather it’s here where it’s safe and private than have them sneak around.”

“And the risk of pregnancy?”, the woman asked.

“It was Mrs O’Keef that took Caity to the doctors for the pill, for her period pains apparently. And I’ve had words with Simon about contraception, ‘cos if they’re not having sex now, they will eventually. And his parents aren’t the sort that would discuss that stuff.”

How easily the lies come out.

She nodded and moved on. “Who does Caity turn to with problems?”

“I don’t know. Probably Mrs O’Keef, or her bodyguard. Not me, anyway.”

“Are you sure?”, she asked, surprising me.

“Well ... yes. I mean, I’d be happy if she did. We’re not as close as we used to be.”

“And your uncle?”

I gave an undignified snort in response. “He’s not someone we confide in.”

“Do you not think that a child’s legal guardian should be able to fill that role?”

I didn’t like where that was going. “Yes. Which is why our original guardian, Dan Porter, was far better. Caity and I both think the world of him.”

“Tell me about Charlie Garforth.”

“He and his mum came to live with us for seven months a couple of years ago. They’re like family.”

Her stare was like she was reading my mind. “You’re aware that Ms Garforth has named you as Charlie’s guardian in her will?”

That made my eyes bulge. “No, I didn’t know.”

“Can you think of anyone better for that task?”

“His grandparents for a start!”

She checked her notes again. “The grandfather has heart problems, and the grandmother doesn’t feel able to look after both her husband and grandson.” She stared into my soul again. “You do care about the boy, don’t you? I’m told you visit frequently.”

“I love him to bits”, I stated firmly.

“And your sister?”

“Of course!” Bloody stupid question.

“But you haven’t thought about applying for custody of her?”

So that’s where this was going. I had to consider my response. “Caity isn’t lacking in stability. Or love and attention. Unless she tells me different, I think things are fine as they are. I don’t see the benefit of throwing things up in the air again. Not when it would turn into a media circus.”

She seemed to accept that, and the interview drew to a close.

“You’re not going to believe who prodded social services into their visit”, Dan told Caity and me at dinner.

We both looked up. “Who?”

“You remember the posh Officer Cadet at Cranwell that tried picking on you? The one we got kicked out?”

“Oh you’re kidding me!”

“His father is a brigadier, and his mother is a family court judge. It was the mother.”

Caity asked, “What does that mean? They were trying to get revenge for something you did in the RAF?”

Dan answered, “It means that powerful people sometimes lose perspective and misuse that power when it comes to matters of family. Don’t worry. We’ll deal with it.”

I nodded in grim agreement.

Two days later, former Officer Cadet Philip Wilkes was pulled over by the police. They found a slab of cocaine in his car boot. He claimed he had been set up. He was right.

December went much more smoothly than November. The most significant thing I had on my desk was the proposed reciprocal deal with the Hughes Aircraft company in America. NASA had given Hughes a serious prod to contribute their Apache helicopter to the deal. We would throw in our Kingfisher (Osprey) tilt-rotor, which NASA was so interested in. And NASA offered me a large carrot that I couldn’t resist biting. We were on their waiting list for a satellite launch. It was a long list, and our European television satellite wasn’t a high priority. That is, until we became NASA’s (and the CIA’s) new best friend. Oh, what a tangled web. So the deal looked good to all concerned and would soon be signed.

While my life went pretty smoothly in December, Britain was going to shit. Inflation was huge and getting worse, so the unions were demanding big pay rises to keep pace. I didn’t think that was unreasonable. Real-terms pay cuts would hurt thousands of families through no fault of their own. Dan and I wanted a happy workforce at our company, so we switched our long-standing annual increases to twice yearly and promised to match inflation.

But the public sector was in a bind. Their increases hadn’t kept up, so now the miners were demanding a 35% hike. The government told them to fuck off, so the National Union of Mineworkers instituted an overtime ban. So less coal was mined, and power stations were soon running low on stocks. This while the OPEC oil embargo was still ongoing. Happy days.

To cheer things up a bit, the advent calendars were out again, and two British bands released awesome Christmas songs: Wizzard’s I Wish It Could Be Christmas Everyday, and Slade’s Merry Xmas Everybody which would be the Christmas Number One. It was a good time to be a music fan.

I really liked Christmas that year, as it was when all my friends came home. Peter and Tommy were back from uni, Harry was staying with us until the new year, and so too Charlie and his mum. I was conscious that Harry might struggle this Christmas because it was the first without his mum. Same for Uncle Will, who had been very attached to her. So I worked hard to keep Harry’s spirits up, and I tasked Charlie with doing the same for Uncle Will.

We started a new tradition at work of hiring a venue for a huge Christmas party for our many employees across the subsidiaries. We also had a family and friends party at the house, which is where I first met Sir Edward’s daughter, the redoubtable Gillian Tedbury-Smith. She was not exactly what you might call pretty, or hot. But she was elegantly handsome with an aura of classiness. (Or, to us commoners, she was ‘posh totty’.)

I heeded Dan’s earlier warning that she was a socialite who would soon be hunting a wealthy husband. Unfortunately, it became abundantly clear that I was in her cross-hairs. Hugo found it hilarious. (I smacked him round the head when I had a discrete opportunity.) His words were, “You may as well give in now. If she’s decided she’s going to have you, she will, even if she has to beat you unconscious and drag you to her bed.”

I asked him, “So how can I present myself to put her off? What are her turn-offs?”

He shrugged. “You could announce that you’ve given away all your money and you’re joining the priesthood. Or you could just take her upstairs for a quick blowjob. Once she sees your tiny cock, she’ll run a mile!” I tried to smack him again, but he did a runner.

Gillian cornered me again not long after that. I tried exaggerating my northern accent to play up being a commoner. And I tried being slightly thick (which wasn’t hard). But for whatever reason — and let’s face it, it could only have been my supposed money and power — she had zeroed in on me and wouldn’t be shrugged off. So I gave her a tour of the house, ending in my bedroom, and thought of England as I kissed her. During that exchange of saliva, it occurred to me that I hadn’t really done a lot of kissing. Not serious, romantic-style kissing. It wasn’t bad at all. Slightly unfortunate that I found Gillian tedious, but her kissing technique was very creditable. Do they teach that at Cheltenham Ladies College I wonder? If that’s where she learnt it, they must have taught her blowjobs too, as that’s what followed and it wasn’t half bad.

Gillian returned downstairs to the party first, so as not to arouse suspicion. When I followed, Hugo was waiting for me. “Oh dear. She got you, didn’t she. Another good man doomed to despair. Did you impregnate her? Are you going to be my brother-in-law now?”

I swiped at him, and he did a runner. Again.

In January 1974, Britain descended further into chaos with the imposition of a three-day working week. There simply wasn’t enough coal to generate the electricity needed. My company wasn’t immune from the diktat. But unlike some other companies, we didn’t pass the punishment on to our workers via smaller paycheques. That earned us a lot of brownie points with the unions, noted by a few impartial news organisations.

While we had a big enough war-chest to get by, it was already a bad economy, now made worse, so some companies were fighting to survive. That was an opportunity. Amongst several investments, there was a company we wanted to acquire, owned by the hotel group Forte. They were a direct competitor as hoteliers, but the chocolate company they owned (Terry’s) wasn’t part of their core business. It was an established brand in the UK, and we wanted it to connect with our holdings in West Africa, where the cocoa bean grows. The Forte group swallowed its pride and reached for the lifeline we offered. There was some haggling over the price, but they were happy for a mid-recession cash boost.

The union chaos came to a head on the 7th of February, when the Prime Minister said ‘fuck it’, and called an early general election. The election would take place exactly three weeks later, and during that time, I became a popular guy. The thing with owning a successful newspaper (or three in my case) is that political parties want your endorsement. They wanted me to write in large letters on my front pages, VOTE CONSERVATIVE, or VOTE LABOUR.

So I had three meetings.

With the Tories, I had to say to them: “Look, you’re going to lose. I wish it wasn’t so, but you’ve backed yourselves into an economic corner, and there’s no way out. I don’t back losers, and anyway, I find some of your social policies repulsive.”

With Labour, I had to say: “I think you have a chance of winning, and with my working-class background, I am firmly on the side of workers’ rights and fair wages. My dad was an NUM member after all. But you guys have pledged to nationalise parts of my company, and if I back you, my partners and shareholders will have me lynched!”

So I told my newspaper editors: “I think Labour will win, but I’ve never told you what to write, and I’m not going to start now. I would strongly encourage you to take an impartial view, pointing out the strengths and weaknesses of each party but not giving endorsements. Ultimately, it’s up to you.”