Kit Handsome and a busy day in politics (2)

“Can I speak to you for a moment, Kit?” said Harkaway.

“Sorry Mr Mayor, I just need to discuss a matter with my officer, I’ll be right back.”

They walked into the staff area behind the kitchen. Kit switched on the radio, to drown out the sound of their conversation, in case Harkaway had to say something confidential. It was playing an old hit by Womack and Womack. He switched it off again. It was highly unlikely that Harkaway would have anything important to say anyway.

“Well?” said Kit.

“Has the Mayor gone mad?” asked Harkaway.

“What do you mean?”  said Kit. Was Harkaway really so naive to be shocked by political corruption?

“Why’s he reporting himself?”

Ah. 

“He’s not reporting himself.  This is Barry Banton, he’s the Mayor’s identical twin. He’s reporting his brother.”

“But you called him Mr Mayor.”

“That’s his title.”

“But I thought you said he WASN’T the Mayor.”

“He isn’t, but he was.”

“Eh?”

“He’s the former mayor. On Boonhill former Mayors are addressed by their title long after they leave office. It’s like the US President.”

“But how has he come by his brother’s accounts?”

“He works for his brother. He’s his brother’s right-hand man.”

“So he was the mayor, but his own brother stood against him and won and then gave him a job as his assistant.”

“Who better to work as your assistant than the former mayor. He knows how everything’s done.”

They returned to the kitchen.

“Sorry about that, Mr Mayor. I will look into this, but it will take some time. Let us look through the accounts first and we’ll take a statement after that.”

“Okay Kit. In which case I’ll see you tonight, at the hustings.”

“You’re standing again?”

“Of course, I’m the only candidate that can beat my brother.”

xxx

That evening, Kit took Sally to the hustings, in Boonhill Hall.

“People are very friendly,” said Sally, after they’d spent 45 minutes getting to their seat through a sea of people wanting to say hello.

“They’re not friendly, they’re nosy,” said Kit. “They want to meet the famous Sally.  There’s even a facebook group sharing rumours about you.”

“I know,” said Sally. “I’ve been contributing to it. I’m ‘the friend of Sally from the mainland’.”

“In which case I’m glad it’s not true about the snails,” said Kit.

“I didn’t say I’d been making it up, I said I’ve been contributing.”

Sally laughed at Kit’s horrified expression.

“It’s not true about the snails,” she said.

The first candidate, Kent Blaxby, walked onto the stage, grabbed the microphone, and shouted “I’ll paint all the black swans white.”

There was a silence in the audience, so Blaxby shouted the phrase again. And again. And again. “Boonhill has always been an island for white swans,” he said. “Now we’re infested with black swans, driving out our native white swans. If I’m elected I promise to paint all of the black swans white.”

He eventually left the stage to great applause.

“They should send all the black swans back to the mainland,” Kit heard someone in front of him say. “I’m not a whiteswanpremacist but they just don’t belong here. They can’t even speak proper swan, I saw one at the duckpond and it was just honking nonsense, the other swans didn’t understand a word it said. And it stole all the bread.”

“Do you have a black swan problem?” Sally asked Kit, under a smirk.

“I don’t think there’s ever been a single black swan on the island,” Kit said, “just the rumour that someone had seen one.”

“These events used to be orderly affairs,” he continued. “Sober politicians presenting policy proposals, making a case for their future vision of the island, real politicians tackling real problems. These days you just need to be in the voters’ heads at the moment of voting, and you didn’t achieve that by working hard, delivering well-thought-out interventions to solve major problems like housing, health, work, income, you did it by shouting “I’ll paint all the black swans white”, over and over again.”

“It can only get better from here,” Sally said.

As she spoke, Snoozles cycled onto the stage, and performed a series of cycling-based tricks, to the warm applause of the audience.

“What’s happening?” asked Sally. “Is this an entertainment break, or is the dog a candidate?”

“His owners the candidate. She wants to build a dog performance park on the island. With lighting.”

At the end of Snoozles’ performance, Missy Johnson joined Snoozles on the stage, took a bow and left with Snoozles cycling alongside her.  She made no attempt to speak to the audience.

The next candidate walked onto the stage. It was Superduck. Superduck was the name Mad Brian had given himself a few years ago, for reasons lying long forgotten in a long-since-recycled bottle of cheap cider. He war a tattered T-shirt with an S in bright red lettering.

He took the microphone uncertainly.

“Vote duck and you’ll be in luck?” he said, clearly pleased with his slogan. “Vote duck,” he repeated. He looked around the hall. “Is that enough?” he asked nobody in particular. “Fuck it, I’m done.”  He staggered off, to vague applause.

Next on the stage was the current Mayor.

“Ladies and gentlemen and Boonhill voters. My opponents talk about ducks and swans, and performing canines, but I’ve been your mayor for five years now and you know that I deliver on the issues that matter, jobs, the school, the medical centre, these have all seen a real terms increase of 0.5% under my stewardship and standards have improved as a result.”

“I promise to bring boom times to Boonhill by increasing trade and cooperation with the mainland.  A vote for Harry Banton is a vote for stability and growth.”

The Mayor left the stage to a smattering of applause, to be replaced by his identical twin brother.

“Has he come back on stage?” Sally asked Kit, confused.

“This is his identical twin brother, Barry,” Kit explained. “He was the previous mayor.”

“I’d like to thank my brother for his eloquent speech. I particularly enjoyed its brevity.”  He paused at this point for audience laughter, which never arrived.

“You know me,” he continued. “I’ve been your Mayor before and I promise you that if elected I will do the exact opposite of my brother.  I will bring boom times to Boonhill.

If elected I will restrict trade and cooperation with the mainland. There are other countries we can trade with, we shouldn’t tie ourselves to one country just because it is nearby.

He left the stage to a smattering of applause.

“That’s the last of the candidates,” said Fiona Sprucegoose, the editor of the Boonhill Gazette who was chairing the hustings.  “We will have a twenty minute break for people to stretch their legs, and then we’ll return for the question session.”

As one, the audience got to their feet and ran towards the door.

“What’s happening?” said Sally.

“Everyone’s going to the pub next door for a cheeky one,” said Kit.

“Maybe we should join them,” said Sally. “Be sociable.”

“I’m actually enjoying the peace,” said Kit. “The they mobbed you on the way in. Besides, I’m here in an official capacity, I can’t just sneak off to the pub.”

“My important police chief,” said Sally, and launched into a long, complex kiss. Kit did not enjoy these long kisses, as he spent most of them worrying how long he’d be able to continue breathing.

“Kit, Kit,” the kiss was interrupted by Harkaway. “I’m sorry sir, sorry Sally, but you need to come.”

“What is it?” said Kit, after pausing to take a long, deep breath.

“It’s the mayor, Kit. He’s dead. I think he’s been murdered.”