Knowledge is Power (Part 1)

Michael Baker hadn't slept well at all. He'd woken in the early hours with
his mind spinning in anticipation of his first day at Section 13. The
two week induction course had set his mind alight with what was to
come and he'd found it difficult to focus on anything else.

At 6.30am he slid out of bed, showered, dressed and prepared his usual
breakfast of yoghurt, toast and black coffee. As he ate, he took his
phone off charge and glanced at his emails. There was just one and it
was from his mother and headed 'Happy Birthday.' He deleted it
without opening it and dropped the phone with some disdain onto the
counter top. He was twenty three years old today and about to embark
on his first ever deployment.

The previous evening had been spent memorising the extensive biography
sent to him by special despatch rider, a thick dossier outlining the
meteoric rise of Jesse Wainwright within the ranks of the Labour
Party. From envelope stuffer in the local branch office in Oldham, to
local party secretary, parliamentary candidate and finally, elected
Labour member for the Colne Valley. Jesse was a twenty-nine year old
firebrand with a crop of unruly red hair, a fervent dislike of the
establishment, a hater of capitalism and everything it stood for and
vociferous in her relentless calls for the nationalisation of the
banks. The banks singled her out for quiet observation.

Michael picked up his phone and the Palace of Westminster Press Pass included
in the dossier, dropped them into his shoulder bag and headed for the
door. The elaborate alarm system, like the apartment, was new to him,
but he had already memorised the six digit code. As he pulled his
door to and set off along the corridor towards the lift, he heard the
alarm setting and settling down to its task. He smiled to himself,
because for the first time in his life he felt the world was his
oyster. He was about to test his formidable ability in a role created
and supported by a formidable organisation.

His company apartment was located in a modern block, close to Limehouse
station and it would have been his quickest and most convenient
option to take the train into the city. The information in his
dossier however, made it necessary for him to take the No.15 bus,
which would take him straight past his target's address, a two
bedroom apartment above The Hung Drawn and Quartered pub, at
Monument. He much preferred the bus anyway, as it always seemed a
much more uncertain and eventful adventure.

Stepping out onto the street, he was immediately assaulted by the early
morning cacophony of the busy city. This was the energetic part of
the day, when people went about their business with purpose and
determination, elbowing themselves aggressively into the morning. A No.15
Boris Bus pulled onto the stop not fifty feet from his front door and
Michael stepped deftly on board, tapped his Oyster card, pick up a
free copy of Metro and slid into the nearest vacant seat. The
adventure had begun.

Alighting at the stop before Monument, he set himself down on the bus shelter
plastic seating, giving him a perfect view of the pub and the first
and second floor apartments above it. He took his press accreditation
from his bag and hung it around his neck by its lanyard. All he had
to do was wait.

At 08.15, exactly as predicted in his notes, his target appeared from
the building and headed straight across the busy Great Tower Street
with real purpose. A vision in red, she held a bundle of files
closely against her unbuttoned scarlet duffle coat whilst skipping
skilfully through the crawling traffic towards the bus shelter.
Michael watched her intently from his perch and willed her to sit
alongside him.

Just as she made it safely onto the pavement, only yards from the stop,
the next No.15 approached and pulled up dramatically, gasping and
hissing as the brakes were applied and the doors swept open. The
timing was perfect and Jesse Wainwright, in one fluid movement and
with split second timing, stepped straight through the opening bus
doors ahead of the queue, tapped her Oyster card against the reader
and disappeared with alacrity upstairs. Michael Baker, amused by what
he'd just witnessed, joined his fellow travellers and waited his turn
in the queue.

At the top of the stairs, he glanced quickly along the crowded upper
deck and spotted Jesse settling herself into the only vacant double
seat near the back. She was sitting next to the window and looking
down at the files she had placed alongside her on the bench seat.
Michael seized the perfect opportunity and headed straight towards
her.

'Do you mind if I join you?'

Jesse looked up at the figure towering above her and responded to his
question with a look of annoyance. She grappled with her unruly
document heap and slid them awkwardly onto her lap. Michael slid in
next to her, his knees pressed uncomfortably against the back of the
seat in front and launched straight into his task.

'You need a brief case for that lot,' he quipped, nodding in the direction
of her lap.

'Damn thing fell apart on me this morning,' she replied. 'Handle gave up
under the strain.'

Michael grinned and left a suitable pause before developing his opportunity.

'And so far from home,' he enquired. 'Do I detect a delicate hint of
Yorkshire in your voice?'

This time, Jesse made eye contact with him, scanning his face intently. He
held her gaze for a split second until she turned away and busied
herself with the files on her lap.

'Not a bad guess,' she said, 'but where I come from, that would be an
insult.'

Michael gave her his best puzzled look and left her to further explanation.

'The other side of the Pennines, she said indignantly. 'Ovver 't tops, as
we Lancastrians say.'

'My apologies. I think I've just committed a cardinal sin haven't I?

'Only the worst possible. It would be an instant death sentence at Oldham
Magistrates Court.'

'I'm quite familiar with Oldham, responded Michael, with as much false
affection as he could muster. My parents used to take me to visit an
aunt there when I was a boy.'

Jesse turned towards him for a second quick scrutiny, now quite intrigued
by the way this chance meeting was developing. She turned back into
the shelter of forward facing.

'Have you just made that up as part of a chat-up strategy?'

'Oldham Road it was, straight opposite the hospital in a row of terraced
houses. I always thought it odd being called Oldham Road, as it was
already in Oldham. I loved my auntie Joyce, she was great fun and she
loved me. As nice a lad as ever smashed a window, she used to say,’

Jesse visibly relaxed and smiled. She turned inwards forty-five degrees.

'I know it well. Spent many hours in that hospital during my childhood.'

'Nothing serious I hope?' He enquired

'Not really, just a steady sequence of childhood maladies and accidents.
Appendix removed, food poisoning and a badly broken leg.'

Michael was delighted with the way the contact was developing and moved up a
gear.

'Just think, you could have been in there when I was across the road,
watching the buses roll by from Auntie Joan's front room.'

Jesse smiled at the thought and looked out at St Paul's as the bus headed
for Ludgate Circus. She turned back to face her new travelling
companion. She was about to make some aimless comment when she
noticed the lanyard hanging around his neck and the pass it
supported, partially hidden by his unbuttoned jacket. At first glance
it appeared to display a House of Commons portcullis and crown
emblem. This intriguing encounter had just turned up a notch.

'I hope you don't mind me asking, but is that a house of Commons pass
you're sporting?'

Michael took hold of it and held it out in front of him as if surprised by
the question.

'It is indeed. My passport to fame and fortune.'

'Do you work there?'

'As of today I do, my first morning.'

'In what capacity, may I ask?'

'I'm reporting for the Banking Times,' he replied with fabricated
pride.'There's a debate scheduled today on proposed new legislation
with regard to lending, capital reserves and risk assessment. Boring
stuff, but the banks are more than a little interested and my task is
to write a report for this month's issue.'

For some seconds Jesse stared at him, turning her body fully towards him,
clearly at a loss for any instant response.

'Are you OK?' enquired Michael, in full knowledge of what she was about to
say.

'Yes, I'm fine. It's just that it's so difficult to get my head around such
a coincidence.'

Michael, now pulsing with delight at how well this initial contact was going,
gave her a look of puzzled amusement. 'I'm sorry, but you'll have to
explain.'

'It's just that I'll be speaking in that debate this afternoon and here we
are, two total strangers sitting side by side on the bus heading for
the same place for the same reason. How bizarre is that?'

Michael pretended to be processing this information before responding.

'But if you're speaking in the debate, it must mean that you're a member
of the house?'

'Jesse Wainwright, member for the Colne Valley. How do you do,' she said,
smiling warmly and holding out a freckled hand.

Michael twisted himself awkwardly in the confined space, releasing his right
arm in order to grasp this unexpected opportunity. Her hand was warm
and soft and emitted an energy that burrowed down into places that
bypassed his defences with ease. They both held on a little too long
and their smiles broadened. Michael was nonplussed, momentarily
derailed.

'Well,' she said. 'That's my cover completely blown. Now it's your turn.'

'Oh! Yes, sorry. Michael Baker, freelance journalist, rabble rouser,
Wakefield Trinity supporter and more than delighted to meet you.'

* * *

Ever since 1803, when crowds clamoured to hear William Pitt speak on the
Napoleonic wars, forcing reporters from their usual seats in the
Commons chamber, part of the public gallery had been reserved solely
for the press. Distinguished figures such as Samuel Johnson, Samuel
Taylor Coleridge and Charles Dickens had all sat there as Gallery
Reporters during their early careers and now it was the turn of
Michael Baker, an imposter with callous intent. He sat there
listening to the theatre below, the magnitude of what he had
committed to doing slowly beginning to sink in. He couldn't get the
handshake out of his mind. She spoke to him with it, she reached
inside him with that one simple gesture and touched something that
unsettled him. He took out his phone, typed the simple message
'contact established' and pressed send.

They met up at five o'clock in the Members' Tea Room, as agreed when
they'd parted company that morning in the Central Hall. Jesse was
still flushed from the excitement and physical exertion of the fiery
speech she'd made in the chamber. As usual, she'd been admonished
twice by the deputy speaker for the use of inappropriate language in
the chamber and had been made to apologise to the house before being
allowed to continue. She had yet again, made her feelings known about
the relentless greed of the banks and their destabilising grip on the
economies of the entire world. Michael had listened intently to her
every word, entranced by her fiery fervour.

'Wow! That was quite a performance. The opposition front bench were not
amused, especially when you called them a bunch of bloated,
capitalist lackeys.'

'The truth never goes down well in this place, it's much too uncomfortable
for the rich ones. So, what did you think of my speech?'

'I thought it was honest and heartfelt.'

'But you didn't agree with it?'

'Not entirely, no. Capitalism isn't entirely evil you know, it's been the
basis of our society for centuries.'

'It has, and for centuries the rich have got richer and the poor have got
poorer.'

Michael smiled and held up his hands in a gesture of surrender.

'Look, Jesse Wainwright, member for the Colne Valley, I'm not looking for a
fight, because you've already shown me I wouldn't last two rounds in
a ring with you. Let me take you for a drink. It's been a long and
eventful day for both of us and I feel like a little celebration.'

Jesse hesitated for a moment, clearly considering whether she should lower
her defences and allow the barbarian through the gates, but for some
reason she felt particularly at ease with this particular barbarian,
even if he was from Yorkshire.

'OK, but just one. I've got another speech to write tonight and I don't
want to be burning the midnight oil.'

They left the Members' Bar just after nine o'clock and shared a taxi.
Several drinks more than intended and some lively political jousting
had overridden any fatigue and they both slumped into the taxi's faux
leather bench seat with a sense of satisfaction. Jesse positively
glowed, her fiery red hair framing a freckled radiance. She slid
closer to him and linked her arm through his in a warm gesture of
connection, the shelter of forward facing no longer required.

'Well, Michael Baker, journalist and Wakefield Trinity supporter, twelve
hours ago we were strangers on a bus. What are we now?'

'Two lost souls from up north, looking for warmth and friendship in an
alien land,' he replied, deliberately lapsing into dialect. Av tekken
a real shine to you Jesse Wainwright, as we say in Wakey.'

The taxi pulled up outside the Hung Drawn and Quartered and Jesse slid
across to the door, flung it open and turned to face Michael. He
stared at her with a look of expectation.

'Not tonight, Michael Baker, rabble rouser and Wakefield Trinity
supporter, I've got things to do.'

Michael suppressed his disappointment and forced a smile.

'Can we meet again sometime Jesse? I think I could write a great article
about your crusade against the banks.'

She paused for a second, but slid out into the night, before turning to
face him.

'Ring my office tomorrow and fix up a time with Debbie, my assistant,
she'll fit you in at the next available opportunity.'

'I don't have your number,' he protested.

'Then find it, you're supposed to be a journalist.'

With these words hanging in the crisp evening air, Jesse turned and
disappeared from view. For a few seconds he sat there, thwarted and
annoyed.

He leaned across, grabbed the door handle and slammed it shut. The taxi
driver turned round with a knowing grin on his face.

'No up-and-under tonight then mate,' he quipped.
'Where to?'