Problems - Tony Blair in the Wilderness

...McKong tells everyone where Mrs Francis-Prior really is...but then he gets nasty with a pinch bar...he's cracked open the concrete runway...and it looks like Tony's in his biggest trouble yet...



It was a foolish thing to do. A crack spread like forked lightning. There was a crazed screech of metal and a movement of the surface—settlement of the whole runway. Dust pumped the air. The vast, grey plain was disintegrating beneath us. Paterson dropped to his knees and pawed the cracks. He pulled at McKong’s trousers.

“Oh Jesus, my runway. What are you doing, McKong? Drive that bar into me instead.”

Mr. Ferguson looked at the spreading cracks.

“This is the worst moment of my career. We won’t win a contract outside the Arctic Circle after this.”

Freeman produced a calculator and tapped the keys.

“The cost to McCreedie will be…immense. Replacements never come cheap. Once someone knows we need a replacement they can name their price.”

McKong yanked the pinch bar out of the hole in the runway.

“Now look what you’ve done, Blair.”

“Oh blame me, sunshine.”

Men in pale suits holding torches moved behind McKong in the flurries of snow.

“Along this whole coast, hundreds of companies, Vectoil, Carse, Amocol, Strategem, Unibol, are using up valuable resources, and for very good reasons of course, don’t get me wrong. Progress is everything. I wanted to make conditions better for people, to improve standards, to help Carse, to help the Civil Aviation Agency, to make everybody better off. It was the best decision of my life, Tony, to put something back into the runway.”

“That’s a great line, McKong. But what happened to Jim?”

“Oh, Tony, get over it. He fell off Carse’s cranes. He never had a head for heights.”

“Isn’t anyone concerned?”

McKong laughed.

“Concerned for Jim Baird? Be serious. You’re out of touch, Tony.”

“What about his wife? His kids?”

“He was lying about them. We found this on him.”

McKong held the folded magazine page. It was the page I’d seen in the Cromal Man kirk. I could see Jim’s young gaze and his laughing face.

“Look at it, Tony. What does it tell you?”

“It’s Jimbo.”

“Look at it.”

“It’s Jim. What do you want me to say?”

“That’s not Jim. Look at it. How could that be Jim? You were labouring under a misapprehension about why Jim would carry a disgusting, filthy picture like that. Not that it matters. Money is being pumped into this region by the million, and McCreedie has a slice of the pie. That’s why the Civil Aviation Agency wants to take direct control of the runway, to put something back themselves.”

Lorry engines started. The generator picked up. Lights glowed through the snow. The mixer plugged the air and a tannoy sounded across the runway.

“All personnel must report to the site office immediately. This site is now under the direct management of the Civil Aviation Agency, and our mission statement is about to be relayed to you all right away.”

Men holding walkie-talkies climbed over the mixer. They were brushing snow off the top of the silo and shining bright lights inside it. The storeroom was open and they were searching the shelves. They were at the window of the lab, turning the place over, clearing the desk, lifting out drawers, and inspecting my logbook, checking my work, looking for my diary.

“You cost us the contract, Blair.”

“It is our mission to delight the client with efficiency. To provide service and support beyond where it is needed, to hold the client’s hand, to go the extra mile.”

“Say you’re sorry, Blair.”

“Fat chance.”

I heard a jet winding down, and I looked round. Brilliant lights approached the runway. A plane, way off course, was steadying itself for landing. I backed away, but the bright searchlights made a deep shadow, following me, blinding me—the engine screaming reverse thrust, closing in, heading straight for me.

...it's nearly the end...

Tony Blair: The Wilderness Years ISBN 1-4196-0573-9 Out in Paperback Now