Heaven's Light

"What's this Pompey First for?" 
"Us. The city. Portsmouth." 
"And who'd be in charge?" 
"I don't know. It hasn't got that far. Charlie's from advertising. He never thinks things through. Not if he can help it." 
"So why's he bothering?"

It was a question that had been niggling Kate for most of the day. Her friendship with Charlie Epple had deepened over the summer, a welcome counterpoint to the gloom that had begun to envelop her. She needed a court jester in her life and he'd played the role to perfection. With Barnaby preoccupied with business, and her political career at a standstill, he'd been a welcome - if erratic - source of company. They'd had half a dozen meals together, been to the movies, shared a wild day out on the Isle of Wight. He was good fun and underneath the manic one-liners she'd sensed a real outrage about the direction the country was taking but until she'd seen the video he'd compiled she'd never suspected that his disgust extended as far as political commitment.

Billy struggled out of the armchair and pulled the curtains. Despite months of physiotherapy on his damaged knee, he was still walking with a limp. He turned round, staring down at Kate. He'd put on a lot of weight and it was beginning to show in the folds of grey flesh beneath his chin.

"Has he written a constitution? Got himself something to believe in? Or is it a la carte? Open house? Anyone's party?" 
"I've told you, I don't know." 
Kate extended a hand, feeling him flinch as her fingers brushed his thigh. "I can't imagine he's got that far. He's great with the headlines but all the legal stuff just isn't his thing." 
"What about your lawyer friend, then? Can't he help?" 
Kate turned her face away, refusing to be goaded. She'd talked to a lot of neurologists over the last eight months and all of them had told her the same thing. Brain injuries as severe as Billy's had life-long consequences: feelings of inadequacy, low self-esteem, of being pushed aside from the mainstream of events. Prior to the riot, Billy had been philosophical about Hayden Barnaby. Afterwards, he'd come to hate him. 
"Well?" He wanted an answer. 
"I don't know." 
"Haven't you asked him?" 
"No." 
"Why not? I thought he was involved? Keen?" 
"He is, or was." She looked directly up at him. "But what do you think? Do you think it's a good idea? Breaking away? Giving people the choice?" 
"Choice? Choosing between two kinds of capitalism? Two kinds of greed? Two ways of stuffing your neighbour? What kind of choice is that?" 
"Who said anything about capitalism?" 
"No one. But you don't have to. It goes with the territory." 
Billy was reaching for the bottle of whiskey. Uncapped, it stood on the carpet beside the armchair. Kate's hand closed around it. He stared down at her, red-eyed, belligerent. "Give me that bottle." 
"No." 
"I said give it to me." 
"No. Not until you tell me what you think." 
"I just did." 
"I mean what you really think. Charlie's come up with an idea. It might be very good. It might be hopeless. But the way things are, at least it's some kind of alternative. Don't you have a view on that? Without slagging us all off?"

Billy began to sway. He reached down for the arm of his chair, supporting himself. He looked about ninety. "Socialism's the alternative." He whispered thickly. "Always was, always will be. Not that it fucking matters to you." 
"That's unfair." 
"No, it's not. Pompey First. New Labour. Lib-Dems. You're pissing in the wind, all of you. It's words, just words. You come here telling me about the New Jerusalem and it turns out to be some adman's wet dream. Words are cheap. It's action that counts."