PIKLE   KIP FENN   CONTACT

KIP FENN - REFLECTIONS  
by Paul K Lyons

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Chapter Three
Harriet, Caxton and the Net

'Integrity, loyalty and fairness, these are the qualities I have tried to bring to my personal and public life.'
'Unhindered access to information is essential to freedom, equality, and justice for all. Unhindered access to information for all is the key to a peaceful, democratic and progressive world.'
'Those who wish to control the flow of information, are those who wish to control our lives.'
A Man of the People by William Caxton (2029)

In general, I see visitors between 6 and 7pm in the evening or on Saturday afternoons, and, I prefer to see one person at a time. I set the pattern soon after settling into this sunset hospice, this halfway house ­ halfway between life and death. Jay comes most often, partly because I encourage his visits (talking with him tires me less than with anyone else), and, I hope, because he likes my company. Also, in the last few months, since his partner Vince Wells ran off with a holiday tour manager, he has been lonely. Most days I talk for a few minutes to Flora Pattison. She is roomed along the corridor, but, unlike me, can manage short spells in an Easy. I never bothered much with Easys, having moved straight from my last accident in a Swifty to this bed. Flora hums in, natters about the nurses and/or her pill menu and symptoms, and then hums out. She's so high-spirited, though, and so undemanding I don't wish to ask her to leave me out of her daily carrousel. She's scheduled her death on the same day as me, 31 January 2100, so I feel bonded to her in an odd kind of way.

And then there's Chintz. Ever since she asked about the Ferrez photo, she's taken to visiting me at the end of her shift. She stays until I say 'I'm tired now', and then kisses me on the forehead and leaves in an instant. I can talk to her, as I talk to Jay, about this book. They both help me put my thoughts in order; also, I can tell by their attention to my anecdotes how interesting they might be to someone other than me. Jay appreciates the family stories, the personal stuff; Chintz wants to know about famous people and exotic places. She's learned a thing or two about William Caxton, 'The man of the people', in the last few days. I seem to have been prevaricating, picking out the best bits with which to impress her, rather than making the effort to reflect on seriously, and write about faithfully, this bleak period of my life. Nevertheless, it's good to know a girl's smile can warm my heart ­ even at 99.

Because they made an effort to do so, many remember where they were or what they were doing when they heard about Caxton's assassination. It was the kind of fashionable fluff talk you could hear at young people's fiestas throughout the 100 year golden era of oil and chips. (Tom, my father, who was 18 months old at the time, claimed he could remember his mother Evvie shouting 'Oh my god' when seeing John F Kennedy shot on television. Although, under cross-examination, he would eventually admit he might have been told this later. About John Lennon's assassination, my uncle Alan always remembered his English teacher at primary school insisting on a minute's silence, and giving a lesson about the Beatles' lyrics. Peter de Roo, who had a teenage crush on Vi Hoop, was painting the family barge when the pop music on his personal player was interrupted with news of the singer's assassination.)

I remember where I was when Caxton was murdered (although I'm jumping a decade or so ahead here) for two reasons: because of the joy I experienced as I watched the giantscreen replay the moment over and over again; and because Diana demanded I tell her the full story. It was the first time I had told anyone other than Harriet. Part of it was in the public domain, but not my story, not my version. Perhaps his death had suddenly released me, or, perhaps I wished to impress Diana with uncharacteristic openness.

Diana and I had met only two weeks previously at one of Peter's festive gatherings, but this particular evening we were at Keizerskroon, a tulip palace restaurant, in the Dutch town of Zaandam. Diana looked radiant. She wore a long purple cotton dress, giving her a dash of added height (she was only a few centimetres shorter than I), and a dark red velvet bonnet slanted across her forehead half hiding a round, cherub-like face. I have a kitsch photo of us. Here it is now, exactly as it was then, on a large wallscreen. A roving photographer had ushered us over to a banked display of tulips in flower, a veritable rainbow of colours, and snapped us a few times looking self-conscious and stiff. He said something I didn't understand fully, but Diana translated, over-emphasising the last but one word: 'Put your arm around the lovely lady.' So I did. Diana bent her fleshy body sideways into mine (I remember the sensation vividly, for it was the moment I realised she ­ to use an old-fashioned word ­ fancied me), and the photographer said 'bravo'. Minutes later, the picture appeared on the wallscreen. There was a ripple of applause, one of many that night (and every other night), and I paid a small fortune for two large prints and for a copy to be sent me by email.

William Caxton, or WC as the British satirical magazine 'Private Eye' dubbed him for many years, died instantly on Saturday 14 May 2033 at 5:13pm in Moscow. It was 9:30pm our time when I caught a giant picture of Caxton's face on the restaurant wallscreen. I walked over to stand closer to a speaker so I could hear the commentary. One sequence showed the moment a bullet went through Caxton's forehead. Another showed a bearded youth, only five metres away in a crowd at the side of the street, holding a revolver with two hands out in front of his body, frozen for a few seconds, then rugby-tackled from behind.

Ten days later the assassin, Valentin Spichenko, bled to death in a Moscow jail. His wrists had been slit. In the weeks and years that followed, conspiracy theories abounded. One investigative reporter wrote a book, for example, claiming the Russian mafia had arranged the killing because a Caxton peep-hole or spycam had exposed, live on the net, one of their very best protectors, Georgia's home affairs minister. The man disappeared within hours and was never seen again. The author claimed Spichenko had told a guard he would never serve a prison term because he had very powerful friends. Another, frankly preposterous, theory claimed the UK's Special Armed Services were responsible. But I believed a simple explanation: an ordinary man had a mental break down and attacked the person he felt was to blame for his situation. Spichenko was a newly-qualified accountant with a young wife and a two month old child. His father had died six months previously and left him a substantial inheritance, but he had lost every last penny of it, and much more, by playing and betting on backgammon through one of Caxton's gaming sites.

I had met Caxton, he who was to become my bête noire, a second time (the first having been when I was at school) before I started work for the Department of Communications. He came to Brussels lobbying on the Euronet revision bill in autumn 2020. Bronwen ushered him and several assistants into Lionel Wilcox's office. He shook hands with Firey himself, then with Brian Vetch, then with me. Although I was 10-12 centimetres taller than him, I felt distinctly inferior.

'Ah, the tall young Fenn,' he said with alarming directness. 'I'm so glad we meet again.' He turned to talk to Wilcox for a second. 'We have both progressed since when you were a schoolboy and I was a junior minister.' We laughed with him for politeness. 'I'm glad you've opted for the Parliament. The European Commission might have been the more powerful institution in Delors' day, but no longer.'

I cannot say I wasn't flattered by the attention Caxton paid me. Nevertheless, I am gratified to recall that, subsequently, I was sufficiently sceptical about his character to allow myself to be wholly influenced against him by Firey and Brian. During the meeting they dismissed his anti-regulation arguments, and, once his entourage had left, they mocked him for being profoundly full of himself (and for being so short, but this only because they disliked him).

This second encounter with Caxton was not wholly a matter of chance, and, because I do not wish to be accused of avoiding facts that give succour to those who believe we make our own luck and our own misfortune, I should set the record straight. If I had not been so intent on name-dropping, my life might have taken a very different course. The truth is that I mentioned, somewhat youthfully and boastfully, to Brian that I had met Caxton before. Without this petty brag, he may not have suggested I sit in on the meeting; and, if I had not been there, it's possible Caxton would not have picked on me later to be one of his squealers. But I was, and he did. And I learned, from first-hand experience, that William Caxton was not a man who played by the rules, nor was he a man who bluffed.

Apart from countless biographies, not to mention his own early auto-hagiography, information about Caxton can be found in every printed and net encyclopaedia, so there is no need for me to cull more than a few cursory background details from Encyclopaedia Universal. Ronald Shuttleworth was brought up in a large, non-religious, Catholic family by a succession of nannies (his mother being too committed to the Girl Guides, and his father being far too busy managing the packaging firm inherited from his father); he won the equivalent of 15 million euros on the lottery when he was only 18; and, after spending a quarter of his winnings in two years, he had a sudden and dramatic (possibly drug-fuelled) conversion to maturity. He then bought and grafted his way through Harvard Business School. On returning to the UK, Shuttleworth settled himself in an estate near Tenterden, Kent, bought several local newspapers on the cheap, and joined the Liberal Democrat Party. In the media business, he developed a commercially-successful way of sprucing up the town-based newspapers in conjunction with information-loaded local websites. In politics, a readiness to use his money and his media for the cause soon won him friends and influence.

Why did Shuttleworth choose the Liberal Democrats? The historical consensus is that he adapted his apparent politics to the party which he thought would give him the easiest ride. He did not win a seat during the 2009 electoral reform election/referendum but, having done well in a tough constituency, he was eased into a safer seat which he won two years later. The weak coalition that took power in 2011 (the Conservative Alliance plus other anti-Europe groups) collapsed within 18 months, and Shuttleworth was elected an MP in the 2013 elections. In this, the third government in five years, and the second Labour-Liberal Democrat coalition, he was given a junior posting. He willingly withdrew from the day-to-day running of his burgeoning media empire and, otherwise, demonstrated a commitment to politics over and above business. In 2015, he was promoted to junior minister for communications. But, having bluffed and bribed his way so far, he was unable, or unwilling, to hold his tongue. Barely a week went by without Shuttleworth himself making the news for trying to edge policy, particularly on net issues, away from the government line. His resignation in 2017 was a spectacular affair, filling far more column centimetres than news about any other junior minister might have done.

Thereafter, he courted more media attention by changing his name legally to William Caxton. He shrugged off criticism from his family and politicians by dismissing it as nothing more than a 'stage name'. He let it be known that he had always admired the original Caxton for being a man of the people, and that he felt an affiliation with his fellow publisher not only because of Tenterden, where he was born, but because of their shared background in the textile industry (great, great grandfather Shuttleworth had been a wealthy mill owner). Within four years, the 21st century's very own Caxton had launched the Daily Truth newspaper and the People's Channel, both with integrated net services. As is well know, they became phenomenally successful, although the former before the latter.

Our paths crossed a third time on 15 October 2024 (the day after Hurricane Emma caused so much devastation in the Caribbean and the east coast of the US) and when they did, the European Union's Euronet legislation was the reason once again.

On joining the Department of Communications, in the autumn of 2022, I had been assigned to Alexander Duck, a lawyer by training, who acted as the British government's chief expert on European internet issues. The draft Euronet bill, the very same one I had worked on with Firey and Brian, had not made it onto the European Union's statute books: it had been stalled by an alliance of new member states (as they were known for convenience, i.e. the Central and Eastern European countries that became members of the European Union in 2004 and thereafter). No formal progress could be made (in those days) on draft legislation unless roughly two-thirds of the EU's states agreed on a text; only then could it proceed for final negotiation with its colegislator, the European Parliament. The new states did not favour the draft law and kept up a stream of objections to the proposed legal texts, but their main aim in stalling this and other significant proposals was to persuade the old states to maintain a high-level flow of funds to themselves, i.e. the new and poorer states, via the EU's financial perspectives and internal development policy.

During the years in which the draft law was stalled, there was a constant stream, from the European Commission or the member states themselves, of suggestions as to how to overcome each impasse. Every one of these required examination and analysis. It was my job to do this, and to make recommendations to Duck, who would then consult his masters before forwarding them to the UK's negotiating team in Brussels. At the June 2024 gathering of EU leaders in Warsaw, the Polish president, Walenty Czyzewski, skillfully negotiated a wide-ranging deal among the 30 odd European leaders which included agreement on the Union's long-term financial perspectives and on making a determined effort to finalise the Euronet Regulation. This was the signal for the lobbyists to start up in earnest again. No doubt Caxton's team was busy in Brussels, but it was equally keen on ensuring that the British government would take up its case and be pressing for the Regulation to be as open and liberal as possible. During my two years in the Department of Communications at Yorkshire House I had been involved in several meetings involving Caxton's companies, but the man himself had never been present. In advance of an important gathering of EU ministers due to make decisions on this dossier in November, though, he did turn up for a discussion with our junior minister. On this occasion, he paid me no attention whatsoever.

Two nights later Harriet and I (married and living by then in a mid-terrace house in fashionable Kilburn) were arguing about arrangements for the weekend when my phone rang. I went to my office room to answer it. William Caxton. The line was unusually crackly and he didn't identify himself by name, but I knew who it was. As best I can remember this is what he said.

'Fenn. That was a pleasure to see you the other day. I have a modest proposition for you. A simple exchange. Information for money. I need inside information on the detail, every last detail, about what happens on the Euronet Regulation after the ministers agree on the broad outlines next month. What a shame Wilcox is no longer on the case.' This was sarcasm since Caxton had been quoted in the press as saying he thought Firey's retirement in 2022 could be nothing but good news for the Euronet. I said nothing.

'As you know, the Council and the Parliament are about to start negotiating, I want regular reports.' There was a pause. 'What?' he said. I continued to remain mute, my heart was beating fast, and my head was all scrambled. 'I hear you asking about your reward.' I still said nothing. 'Fifty thousand euros.'

Although I had heard rumours about Caxton's unconventional methods, I could not believe this was happening. He stopped talking, and I needed to fill the silence.

'Thank you Mr Caxton, but no, I couldn't do it.'

As I spoke, I knew there must be more to come. He tried again to convince me to take the money. He assured me that extraordinary efforts would be made to ensure that the information could not be traced to me, and that my job and future would be secure. When I refused and threatened to put the phone down and to report the conversation, he turned nasty. He mentioned some debts we had accumulated at the time, and then, when that did not persuade me, he referred to Lola, my net madam of three years. I don't believe my relationship with Lola was, in any way, illegal at the time; and yet I did feel so ashamed of this secret that I was putty in Caxton's hands. He went on to explain in detail how he could expose the conflict of interest between my work on Euronet and my personal use of the net. Thus, under threat of public exposure in the Daily Truth, I did, shamefully, give in to his demands.

For the next year or so I told myself I was only passing on information that would be in the public domain within hours. In any case, I believed that Caxton's influence over a major legal text, which needed to be agreed by both the democratic European Parliament and a large number of European nations, could only be negligible.

***

I realise, though, that I have raced too far ahead and not explained enough about my personal life. Harriet did go to Dublin. After having lost my calm when she told me about her decision, I relented and proposed we see each other at weekends. She declined, and it was on her insistence that we broke up yet again. She resented the fact that I would not follow her to Dublin; plus, I am convinced, she never lost the feeling, deep down, that I wasn't good enough for her. After all, I was not handsome and I lacked character (how often did she tell me that over the years). Poor Harriet, she had been spoilt by her theatrical mother, Constance, and could never cope with being ordinary; and, although in some ways she was brighter than I, she lacked any ability to see herself truthfully or to think intelligently about who she was, and how she fitted into the world around her. It took me a long time to recognise and fully acknowledge this, blinded as I was by her social competence and extroversion.

For the best part of a year, autumn 2022 to summer 2023, we did not see each other, apart from one memorable lunch in Lewis's a few days before Christmas. I remember it because there were vast crowds in Oxford Street and long queues at the self-service restaurant. We argued the whole time about the immigrant hunger strikes which had just begun across the Union. They were to to dominate the continent's political agenda for months, and lead to 50 or more deaths. Harriet, taking an extremist view, said they should be allowed to die. I wanted her to understand about the long-term advantages to Europe of significant immigration and integration of cultures, and, therefore the need for softer more subtle controls. She insisted on the rights of democracy and of giving way to the insistent cry of citizens for protection from the ills of immigration and the crimes of immigrants. But what a pleasure it was to debate with her. She could argue, unlike so many of her friends, without losing a sense of logic. When our intense debate came to a natural conclusion over some chinese tea brew (to counteract the duck fat in our meal, I was told), Harriet suddenly recanted.

'I think you're right, on the whole. I was only teasing. I don't want them to die.' I said nothing. I was thinking how much I had missed being with her. And then, as if she had not already done enough to recharge my feelings towards her, she added in a typical off-hand way, 'You know, Kippy, you're one of the most intelligent men I've ever met. I do miss you.' A few seconds later she was gone.

During the spring, we exchanged a few short meaningless messages, while I allowed myself to be dated by a girl called Popsicle (thank goodness I never met her parents) who, aptly, died her hair bright colours and wore jeans with neon flashes. We met at The Photography Place where I'd gone after work to see an exhibition of Irish stereo photographs from the 1860s. Some of the photographs had been mounted as large black and white prints, very slightly out of focus and in denial of the stereoscopic effect, but the exhibition also included a dozen or so stereoscopes placed strategically on shelves allowing one to bend over and experience the fully glory of the three-dimensional effect created by the near-twin prints (made from left-eye-view and right-eye-view negatives). I had my eyes glued to a scene called Picnic by the Dargle (possibly by Frederick Holland Mares). I did see the same photograph through a stereoscope again, decades later in Dublin, which might explain why I can recall the 3D image so well. Despite 250 years of technological development, however, I cannot reproduce the same effect on my wallscreen, and I must make do with this slightly out-of-focus reproduction to remind me of the detail. In the fore-ground, a group of ladies and gentlemen, wearing formal dress, are seated at a picnic table, looking at the camera, or drinking, or talking. They are all framed by a bower of trees. In the background, to one side, a river flows towards and past the picnickers. What I remember, however, is how the picture carried my eye: first to the front of the long picnic table, past an upturned top hat, and from side to side examining each face, bearded or bonneted, to the far end, and from there across the luxuriant foliage behind the picnickers to a cascade in the river set far back, and then down with the river widening into the foreground towards a darkish pool at the side, and, from there, finally to a second upturned top hat on an empty stretch of bench in front of the table, providing the visual clue to return to the other top hat and to examine the people again, this time more leisurely, and to wonder who they were, why they were there, and what I might say to them if I were sitting at the same table.

'Can someone else have a peep.' Having dallied in black and white on the soft and pleasant banks of the Dargle, I was rudely thrust back into the acute present, by a shrill voice and then, on turning round, by technicolour clothes. I stepped aside in mild shock.

'Wow.' She stood up after a few seconds and, finding me still there, started a conversation. 'Isn't it amazing that they could do this stuff so long ago. It makes you wonder what we've achieved in the last hundred years doesn't it?' It wasn't a rhetorical question, and so we ended up in the tearoom talking for an hour or so, before moving on to her pad nearby.

Popsicle, who made a living by photographing furniture for advertisements, proved a fun companion for a couple of months. More importantly she was instrumental in nurturing my interest in old photographs. But photography was the only thing she could take seriously; otherwise, she divided her time between watching soap operas on television and 'going out'. It didn't matter where, a club, a gallery, a cinema, anywhere. We were so unsuited, it was bizarre: I would no more introduce her to my work friends, than she would admit to her shallow arty/clubby friends that she was fucking (or rather not fucking) a civil servant. We only survived as a couple through to the spring because she saw my impotence as a real challenge. I gave way to her vain and utterly ineffective attempts to deal with it because I was lonely, and because I was becoming increasingly concerned about my growing reliance on Lola.

One day in late June ... it must have been June because the football World Cup semi-finals were taking place in Venezuela, and the English media had gone mad with an Argentinian referee ­ I remember his name, Mendoza. He awarded a dubious penalty to Ukraine against England. Then, when the shot was half saved by Ibbotson, and the ball appeared not to cross the goal-line, Mendoza whistled for a goal without asking for cam-tech advice. The single score was enough to give Ukraine victory. One broadcaster mocked up a camclip of the penalty, replacing the football with Mendoza's head, and called it On the Spot with Mendoza.

One day in late June, Harriet messaged me: 'Kippy darling, You must come to Dublin. Come for a week. Come in August, I'll take holiday and show you round. You'll love this town and the country. Not the last week, though. Let me know soonest.' The sub-text was clear ­ she wanted to try again. And so did I.

Apart from seeing Harriet, and a visit to the splendid Liffy Theatre (a dense play about the 20th century troubles), the highlight of my week in Ireland was a trip to the Wicklow mountains. I'm not convinced we found the right picnic place by the Dargle river, but it was very similar to the one in the photo. We walked along the shingle in Bray, took an Irish cream tea in Enniskerry, and, at Powerscourt Falls grumbled together about the inadequacy of waterfalls in the British Isles (Harriet having experienced Niagara and I having been to Iguaçu). There was one day when Harriet had to work, so I took myself to the National Library and, in the photographic print department, chatted amiably for more than an hour to an elderly expert on albumen prints.

Towards the end of the week, we were sitting in one of Bewley's coffee shacks talking about the delights of Ireland, when Harriet suddenly announced she was fed up with Dublin and her job and would be returning to London in the autumn. I responded with genuine delight. Although I tried to elicit a reason for the change of heart, she would not explain it. Instead, she suggested, as casually as if she were asking the waiter for another menthol tea, that we should marry and live together. It took a few seconds for the marriage proposal to sink in, and then another few to compose a response. Harriet stared at my eyes, as if daring me to be flippant, or to say 'hold on', or to argue. So I did none of those things. Instead I spoke meekly.

'That's a good idea.'

Later on, several times, I tried to quiz her on why things hadn't worked out in Dublin, but she would never say. Whether there was a man involved, or she didn't take to the work, or she had failed to establish a social life, I never discovered. Dublin's loss was my gain, or so I thought at the time.

Thus it was that, by November, we (as in Harriet) had decided on a duplex apartment in a terraced house on Torbay Road, not half a mile from her previous flat (which she had rented out while in Dublin and then sold for a reasonable profit). Tom gifted me 50,000 euros, which allowed my share of the deposit to equal that of Harriet's. Mostly, I let her organise the decor, and the fixtures and fittings, offering only token resistance here and there to expensive items. Over and above a sizeable kitchen, a lounge and our bedroom, there were two further rooms. I took the one downstairs as my office (but not before a major row with Harriet who insisted that if I was to have an office than she needed one too, which meant we would have no spare bedroom). In addition, there was a walled yard at the back which carried a patch of lawn and a few neglected shrubs.

In January 2024, Harriet began work as a public relations 'junior executive' for Mandrill Publications. (The company was sold to H.O.N. in the early 30s and subsequently submerged into the Caxton empire, but not before the megalomaniac himself had departed the world.)

In March, we married. It was a simple affair at the Marylebone Registry Office. I'll list a few of the people who were there, if I can find a photograph. Here's one. There's my mother Julie looking perturbed and flushed with Alan's arm around her shoulder. She looked old on that day, I remember, much older than six months earlier when I'd joined her and some friends for a dinner to celebrate her 50th birthday. It was Harriet that noticed my mother's distressed looks, she thought they were directed against herself. I thought they might have more to do with Tom's presence. He was there with an ugly girl in high heels. Horace took the role of best man (although, to be honest, I would have preferred Alfred, who sent a very touching camclip from Lagos). At the reception in a nearby brasserie, Horace embarrassed me with several anecdotes from our time at Witley Academic.

On Harriet's side, her wayward mother Constance was there with a husband (who Harriet flatly refused to talk to let alone consider as a step-father), as was her mother's father, John Tilson. He was in a wheelchair aided by a distant relation of hers that Harriet had never met before. Harriet liked John, her grandfather. She (and I sometimes) visited him in his Hertford retirement home once a month, and often took him out to visit show gardens or to sit and watch the anglers by the River Lee. I had a lot of time for John. He was born on the eve of the Second World War. After spells in the army and the hotel trade, he spent most of his life trying to run bars of one description or another. He was good at it (or so he said), but could never settle in one place. He told excellent tales about London in the 1960s (which is when he played happy families with Constance's mother), Sydney in the 1970s and 1980s, and Spain until the early 2000s when he returned to the UK for free health care. In addition to family, Harriet invited a variety of friends, but Yvonne ­ she with the thorny look in her eyes ­ is the only one I remember. Of my friends, there was Pete Sampson, Peter de Roo with Livia, by then his wife, and Phil Rumble (a work colleague who played in the civil service volleyball team) with his girlfriend Melanie Koper.

Two weeks later Julie told me about the tumour in her left breast, diagnosed only days before the wedding. With a combination of pills, surgery and radiotherapy, she recovered by the end of the year. Oddly, the illness helped Julie and Harriet bond; without it, they might never have softened towards each other.

I have not forgotten that I am backtracking, trying to give some shape to my life in the 20s, and to the part played by Caxton and his dirty tricks. I had been a client of Lola, off and on, since the year I'd spent in Brussels. Initially, I had balked at paying a premium for personal service, but I soon tired of trawling the net for photos or clips to arouse and satisfy my needs. For a modest fee, Lola, whoever she was and wherever she was, looked after me. To begin with, she provided a regular supply of high quality striptease clips. Then, inspired by Popsicle's passion for art photography, I became keen on black and white photos of innocent-looking girls caught in various states of undress by an apparently hidden camera. Lola had no difficulty in providing me with an endless supply. Surprisingly, she also had access to an excellent library of classic erotica, much of which I stored on Neil. Subsequently, I began to delve into the delights of voyeuristic camclips, despite worrying about how they might have been obtained. Lola reassured me they were all fake, and that I should 'just enjoy them'. She was good at her, or his, job. I assumed she was a woman, but she may have been a man for all I really knew. She was well educated and almost certainly British by the evidence of her writing. Apart from the obvious difference that we never met, our relationship was similar to one I might have had with a physical fitness trainer or therapist. I always felt she was interested in me, and would give thought to what I wanted and would appreciate, surely the mark of a successful professional. But, with Harriet's return to London and our marriage, I made a determined effort to forego Lola's excellent services.

Soon after settling into our Kilburn home, Harriet and I sank into a habitual pattern of sex once a week on Saturday night. Most of the time, I was able to function adequately, there being no pressure to seduce or perform, but there was very little pleasure in the act, neither for her or for me. And there was no question of any discussion or experiment. This was all the more disappointing because I could never put out of my mind the night Harriet had waltzed naked around the bed and shown off a lacy bra; I never stopped hoping I might witness that persona again. Within months (this is embarrassing to confess), I was back, secretly, furtively, getting ejaculation highs from the computer screen. My relationship with Lola, who remained attentive to my changing needs for over ten years until the day she net-vanished, was to outlast that with my wife. This is surely a comment on the 21st century or on me or on both.

Sex was not the only problem. Harriet had a habit of sulking for the most trivial of reasons. I viewed her behaviour as a remnant from childhood, and my behaviour as diplomatic coping. But, in fact, I was no more in control than one of Pavlov's dogs and would do my utmost to try and please her back into a good mood, at least in the early years. On a few issues, though, I did take a stance, and then, when it became apparent that the sulking had not worked, a big row would ensue. The very fact that I had allowed things to get that far, usually meant I was not prepared to give way at all. But, since both of us hated losing our temper, we both suffered afterwards to different degrees. I suspect Harriet deemed such arguments as a flaw in the marriage, and evidence that she had made a wrong decision in marrying me. This caused the kind of conflict in her psyche that she was poorly equipped to deal with. I do not know if inwardly she thought about these things at all, but outwardly her sulkiness took on a nasty tone. Whenever, after one of these arguments, I attempted to appease her, she would snap out some vicious comment, thereby subjecting me to a week or two of what can only be called punishment. Although such problems in our relationship became more complex later, especially with children in the frame, the basic pattern did not change.

***

After the dreadful phone call from Caxton and my weakling submission to his bullying, it did not take long to discover that my net service provider (NSP), a company called Velocity, was part-owned by Caxton's empire. In my files at Yorkshire House, I searched out a study of the European NSP market which the European Union's competition authority had undertaken in response to a notification, earlier in the year, of a takeover request by a Caxton-owned NSP for a German-based firm. It noted that the London-based Caxton Enterprises, directly or indirectly (through 27 different companies, all listed, including Velocity), controlled 32% of the mainstream Union-based market for NSPs. I can only guess at the rest: Caxton must have used an army of personally-appointed technicians whose job it was to collect and interpret information about key people whom he wished to manipulate. How many others were there? I had no idea. Most of Caxton's biographies steered clear of making any detailed accusations of illegal activity. One sensational book, published after his death, did quote extensively from an anonymous inside source who went so far as to call him an 'habitual blackmailer'.

The revised Euronet Regulation was finally agreed in April 2025, although there was a furious row before the location of the Euronet Agency was settled, at the Stockholm meeting of EU leaders, in June 2025. Since its inception, the Euronet had been run by an offshoot of the European Commission in Brussels, but the new Regulation legislated for a much grander Agency, independent of the Commission. Dozens of documents relating to this, and the siting of several other agencies, had crossed my desk. It was a multi-layered, multi-faceted auction between the EU's member states that had gone on for over a year. Every conceivable permutation had been touted by every interested party. Cardiff, Milan, Bonn and Warsaw were all on the short list. The Stockholm meeting was the EU's self-imposed deadline for a decision. A week prior to that meeting, Reuters claimed a scoop to the effect that Bonn would get the Agency. Chancellor Magdalene Kessler (who had come to public attention more than ten years earlier with vigorous criticism of government policy on immigration) denied the story immediately, as did the EU's leaders. But the Polish premier, Walenty Czyzewski, was not satisfied with these denials. He broke ranks and told the Wall Street Journal that, at the Warsaw conclave the previous year, he had been promised the Agency in exchange for his support for the overall Euronet legislative package. Fuelled by this evidence that such furtive arrangements really did take place in secret, the media went white hot, even though everyone with half a live brain knows that such deals are at the heart of politics. It was fun to watch from the inside and the outside. Warsaw won in the end.

Incidentally, it gave me enormous satisfaction to see the text of the final legislation crystallise with Firey Wilcox's three tier system firmly in place, substantial funds (paid directly by EU taxation) and sufficient legislative controls and remedies to give it a real chance.

Between October 2024 and April 2025, I spoke to Caxton's go-between, who called himself Carter, an average of twice a month. Having been advised not to change my NSP, Carter gave me access codes so we could talk in a way he assured me was secure. Fortunately or not, Harriet, who had fallen pregnant in early autumn, became too self-absorbed to enquire into why I had office calls at night. I did not like lying to her, and, at times, I wished she had quizzed me more intrusively, for I might have been tempted to explain all. I gave Carter the nitty-gritty of each Euronet meeting I attended, both important and unimportant, as well as any extra information I had gleaned from paperwork coming in from Brussels. At his insistence, I also outlined the forthcoming schedule of meetings so he would know when to contact me.

I did have the presence of mind to call Pete Sampson for help in setting up a discreet way of recording Carter's calls. He chided me lightly for only getting in touch when I needed something, and then for not bothering to confide in him about the purpose of my shenanigans. But, truth be told, he had become increasingly involved in academic life and had gravitated socially towards other potential profs, while my own free time was largely under Harriet's control. The effort was wasted. I was never able to manoeuvre Carter into mentioning Caxton's name, nor get him to provide a hint of why he, Carter, was interested in my information. If I said, for example, 'Are you sure, Caxton really wants to know all this detail?', Carter would answer me, ingenuously, 'Who?'. All the wrong-doing in these conversations was mine. On Easter Monday (soon after the Euronet legislation ­ the Agency's location apart ­ was finally agreed), a hand-delivered envelope, addressed to me, lay on the mat at the foot of the stairs inside our front door. It contained a bundle of 100 euro notes ­ 500 of them. The money itself gave me a slight buzz of guilty satisfaction, but it was far more pleasing to think that this distasteful episode in my life was over. Harriet was asleep, so I hid the envelope in my office. Thereafter, I withdrew two or three notes each week. (Fortunately, Harriet did not share my sneaky habit of looking through other people's possessions, papers and computer files.)

Caxton had clearly put much effort into lobbying on the Euronet Regulation, yet, at the final count, I could not detect any specific way he had affected the outcome, nor could any of my colleagues with whom I discussed the subject generally. Having lost the main battle for a free and easy regime to continue, his people focused on ensuring that the complex technical aspects of the telecoms world suited, or did not conflict with, the way his companies were developing their network systems and customer relations, about which I knew nothing.

That said, I do believe it was Caxton who orchestrated the great spycam scandal. Although it was never proved (and again no biographer was ever willing to point the finger directly), it had all the hallmarks of Caxton showmanship. If I am correct and it was him, then it was a rare error of judgement. He believed that exposés of public figures would lead to general outrage, and consequently make it awkward for EU politicians if they wished to support a tightening of the regulations, which might outlaw such important exposés. Caxton was right about the level of public interest, as magnified by the media, but he was wrong about the political response.

In brief, this is what I recall. During that winter, 24-25, the one in which the final and intense negotiations on the Euronet Regulation were taking place, there was a series of extraordinary live relays on the internet from secret cameras inside offices and homes of important/famous people. The spycams, it later transpired, were installed on some pretense (a gas leak, a telecom problem) by tradesmen who later could never be traced. It was not only advances in microcam capabilities that made this scurrilous activity possible, but in battery technology, meaning that such cams could be tiny and transmit data for a reasonable amount of time without requiring an external power supply. Although only a dozen episodes were seen on the net in this orchestrated campaign, a further 50 individuals (about half in the UK), out of the estimated millions who probably spent hours looking, were reported to have found illegal spycams in their homes or offices.

For each episode, a producer (sitting in Albania or Georgia or wherever) monitored the feeds from the cameras and, at the moment one of them contained something newsworthy, broadcast it live on the internet. Instant messages sent to key media around the world ensured widespread coverage.

The first episode led to the resignation (and subsequent suicide) of Johnathan Underwood, a High Court judge, who the world saw beat his wife in their bedroom. Only a few witnessed the two minute clip live, but it was repeated endlessly on news and net broadcasts for days and weeks with the netsite address visibly stamped into the clip. The second episode came three days later, by which time millions had signed up for an email alert of any new exposés. For seven minutes, we watched in amazement as three members of the Irish government sitting in cosy armchairs discussed the possible assassination of Sian Linton. Linton was a fierce campaigner in Northern Ireland against the pace of movement towards a unified Ireland, and had, by then, become a hero to many old people in the province who did not want to become Irish. It emerged later that the Irish MPs, all suspected of being Irish Republican Army (IRA) sympathisers 30 years earlier, had been secretly asked, by active remnants of the IRA, for their private opinions on the killing of Linton. The clip ended with a phone call, and one man, fear pulsating across his face, ushering the other two out of the room. The Irish government fell the next day.

This second episode resulted in all mainstream NSPs being persuaded to block access to the site and to any sites set up to replace it. This led many to sign up, almost overnight, to renegade NSPs, beyond the Union's frontiers. The five further episodes took place within about two weeks. Ted Ullswater, a hugely popular family comedian and actor, was caught at his computer terminal sifting through a collection of paedophile pornography. He ended up in jail, as did several company chairman who were shown to have hatched a stock market fraud. Some of these spycamclips did have a clear public interest element, but the purpose of others was less clear. There was one which exposed the illegitimate child of the BBC's chairman, another in which we saw an attractive young Labour MP begin canoodling with a man other than her husband, and a third in which we watched the daughter of the most senior European Union official involved with telecoms regulation mouthing off to a friend about her father and his racist views.

The public loved these scandals. The media loved them too, especially since the owners of the site and the spycams were anonymous and were in no position to enforce copyrights. Despite various legal and political actions to censor repetition of the episodes here and there, the media found ways to get round whatever restrictions were imposed, and rejoiced in doing so. Caxton, I feel sure, hoped these episodes would, one way or another, provide convincing proof that regulation should not be so tight that it would end up sheltering people from the truth. He miscalculated. The EU's member states and the European Parliament made no further liberal concessions at all: the agreed Euronet Regulation effectively legislated for three controlled nets ­ Solar, (open), Doré (business) and Sage (academic) ­ and tight NSP regulation. It also made telecom access to non-EU NSPs either very expensive or illegal.

Although recorded and edited spycamclips became a media staple, especially those legally obtained (or illegally obtained but with such powerful public interest they could not be ignored), it was only in the more liberal developing countries, especially Brazil and Russia, that live spycam broadcasts (such as the one that exposed the Georgian home affairs minister which may or may not have led to Caxton's murder) were witnessed on a regular basis for a further decade or so.

***

To return to more domestic matters, Harriet informed me of her pregnancy one evening in September 24. I arrived home from work and found her peeling potatoes in the kitchen. She spoke without even turning around to acknowledge my presence. I said something inane. Under Harriet's direction and in her social world, we transformed seamlessly into a couple who were expecting their first child. Apart from the constant shadow of Carter's calls and my feelings of guilt, this was a happy time for Harriet and me. She was rarely unwell, and she liked her work. We both enjoyed sharing our daily experiences in the evening. But, whereas I would simply listen to her accounts, she would become involved in mine, deftly exaggerating my own criticism of colleagues' work or behaviour and reinforcing the importance of what I was doing and how I was dealing with policy issues or departmental manoeuvring. Harriet was especially adept at advising me on how to deal with over-ambitious colleagues and on how to make sure my own position was properly valued by those above me. It is Harriet I must thank for my civil service grade promotion (she persuaded me when and how to argue for it), and for saving my civil servant's status after the dreadful Daily Truth business.

Crystal arrived on 25 May, within two days of the predicted date (and only a few weeks after I had received my payoff from Caxton). Harriet was not keen on ante-natal (or post-natal) advice, and we never discussed the consequences of her being pregnant nor did we make any plans together. Whenever the subject came up at a dinner party or with friends in a bar, it always surprised me how much she had already thought about, and planned for our child. After one scan, she told me, in an offhand way, that our baby was a girl. About three weeks before the nine month period was up, she finally took maternity leave, and used the time to convert her office into a baby room. She opted for Miss Princess wallpaper and matching cot, but I was not involved in the choice of decor or baby paraphernalia. Nor was I involved (and this did rankle) in the choice of name. A few weeks later, we purchased a fashionable and expensive sofa-bed for the lounge which we could use when Constance, or occasionally my mother, came to stay for a night or two.

It was 18 years later that I learned, from Crystal herself, how, as a teenager, Harriet had been enamoured of an author, very famous at one time, called Lucretia Quant. She had written several post-fantasy books with an anti-heroine called Crystal. On that same occasion, it was late summer in 43, I was delighted that my daughter wanted to see me, and optimistic that she might have good news, about a job perhaps, or a permanent boyfriend. However, I was perturbed that she wanted to spend our time together walking in the poorer areas around Paddington. To begin with, we talked backwards about things we had never discussed, her mother, our separation, and about Crystal's early schooling; only then did we talk about her current friends and her ex-boyfriend, Vidrio. I asked about her current situation and plans, and she began telling me about the notorious Pearl Worthington. I could and should have been wiser and seen her talk not as a willful teenage stunt, a poke in the eye to society, but as an agonising personal cry of pain. If I had, she might not have taken the Pearly Way only a few weeks later. No, that's fanciful self-recrimination, I am not convinced there was anything I could have done at that late stage.

Tom was abroad the day Crystal was born, but he sent a message of congratulation. He approved of the numerical date 25/5/25. 'Must be magical,' he wrote, making a slight quip against Harriet's mother. But he also noted, with dismay, that Martian Four was due to be launched only three days hence. (Poor Tom. He died while the Martian Six mission was still under way and without knowing that it would lead to one final mission, Martian 'Lucky' Seven, which eventually put Minty and Wayne Nolan on the planet.) Julie came to London to give Harriet a touch of motherly comfort since Constance was unavailable.

Why do the worst memories, the bad and the sad, always flick into one's thoughts far more often, far more easily, than the best? And why are they easier to write about, to define and to reflect on? Harriet and I had a difficult six months, more or less until she stopped breast-feeding. Crystal then slept through the night, and we took on a local childminder for five or more hours a day (so Harriet could return to work part-time and so we could socialise some evenings and weekends). I aimed to be a father by the equality book as they used to say, but Harriet did not want, nor could she suffer, my input or involvement in Crystal's caring. If I had concerns about her needs or wants, it was simplest to keep my own counsel. What I found most disturbing, though, was Harriet's mechanical responses to Crystal's bawling. She would try, in turn, a combination of the possible causes for the distress (the need for drink/food, winding, or a change of nappy) and if none of them worked, she would let her bawl until she fell asleep. I was not allowed to comfort her, unless Harriet deemed it the right thing to do. But, as I say, after that initial period of six months or so we settled down, and for a year lived in relative harmony. Every two or three weeks we were on the move with Crystal, whether to see Julie (and Alan if around) in Godalming, Constance (so long as her husband was out) in Canterbury, Harriet's grandfather John in Hertford, or friends wherever. We got on particularly well, I remember, with Phil and Melanie Rumble. They lived in a large apartment, bought by Melanie's parents, in Greenwich, and had a baby boy a few months younger than Crystal. They both, though, found it impossible to remain friendly after the Daily Truth article ­ a matter which I must soon get to.

It is possible that the fresh breakdown in my relationship with Harriet, which became apparent in January 27, was indirectly caused by the affect on me of new demands from Carter/Caxton. However, I do not believe my behaviour changed in any noticeable way. If I was partly responsible, it was Harriet that announced we had a problem; it was Harriet that proceeded to prove it by finding reasons for endless bouts of sulking and snapping criticisms; and it was Harriet that insisted, because I was causing the friction, that I see a therapist. I do not wish to over-use therapy language, but this was a denial of reality, a relapse too many, a power trip too far. I flatly refused to do any such thing. The truth was too obvious: having become diverted for a while by owning a child, Harriet had, once again, grown tired of me.

I proposed we both see a partnership therapist. Harriet was horrified at first, but when I continued to challenge her plan that I alone seek therapy, she reluctantly agreed. She chose Rosemary Acklow, on the recommendation of one of her friends (Yvonne I think). It was an uncomfortable experience. Harriet confessed, on leaving Acklow's Hampstead premises on one occasion, that she found the whole thing 'dirty'. She employed the word 'filthy' another time to describe a session in which Acklow had tried to broach the subject of our sex life. (Harriet had exclaimed definitively that our problems had 'nothing to do with sex'.) Most often, we simply sat in the consulting room answering questions and saying as little as possible. While I would spend long periods, journeying to or from work on the crowded metro or during some banal meeting, going over these discussions in my mind, I doubt Harriet gave them a moment's consideration beyond our own brief post-session comments.

With several months of inadequate progress behind us, Rosemary suggested we should install, in one or two rooms at home, cams and the necessary recording equipment so that we could 'review together', with 'the facts before us', what was happening in our relationship. Since the early 20s, cam-therapy had been fashionable: examples of couples willing to expose themselves filled the inside pages of life-style magazines, and minor film and sports celebrities found financial comfort in selling edited therapy camclips and camstills to the media. Some obsessed and very rich clients would set up a direct live link to their therapist so they could be honestly monitored at any time. I had learned about this in GlobeOne, the biggest selling Western political weekly. I had also read, I should confess, Julia Derwent's pop-science classic from the 10s, Why Humans are Trees or the Hardships of Adulthood, which took a massive swipe at the whole psychotherapy industry. In summary, Derwent argued that it was as impracticable for an individual to change his or her major behaviour traits as it would be for a mature tree to reconstruct its branches (or, I suppose, for a leopard to change its spots).

Neither of us would make up our mind about Rosemary's proposal. On the plus side, Harriet favoured the idea because it carried a degree of social kudos, and I secretly expected the recordings would show me in a reasonable light. Conversely, I loathed the thought of the extra expense we couldn't afford (in addition to the 1,000 euros a month we were paying for the therapy), and Harriet bridled at the possibility of sordid revelations. I think the reason we finally agreed to rent the equipment stemmed from our mutual trust of Rosemary Acklow, for she had somehow managed to keep a straight bat despite our various off-cutters, leg-spinners and googlies.

(This is an inappropriate metaphor, I know, but I have one eye on a corner of the wallscreen where England are doing well in the second of the triangular two day internationals against Australia and India being played at Lord-it Lords. Lord-it at Lords! What a crass advert the cricket establishment employed during the years when England slipped out of the five year Test League. I was diverted from writing earlier this morning as Flora revealed that her famous son, Barnaby Pattison, now dead, had bowled for England on no less than 53 occasions. She proudly rattled off his various impressive statistics before charging out mid-sentence to stop herself from boring me.)

Predictably, the money we paid to Acklow was wasted. To begin with, Harriet and I were too conscious of the cameras, which constrained our behaviour in the lounge and eating area where the cameras were located. (Harriet had refused absolutely to place one in the bedroom.) She and I would spend an hour or so prior to the sessions with Rosemary, speeding through the recordings in search of something suitable to show her, but for six weeks there was nothing remotely useful. Then, out of the blue, Harriet announced she was with child again. Almost instantly, she became better natured, more interested in me and my work; and she actively re-engaged us socially. The cam equipment contract was cancelled and we said goodbye, with feigned reluctance, to Rosemary Acklow.

It was Crystal's second birthday, a Tuesday in late May, at breakfast, when Harriet casually informed Crystal and me that she was pregnant. Crystal, whose broad uncomprehending smile was covered over by banana mush at the time, was more interested in the pile of presents waiting for her.

'I hope you don't mind,' Harriet said. 'It'll be a boy this time, I know it will. I did the test this morning. It must have been the weekend Mummy was here, which makes it five and half weeks. I was shocked when I saw the test result, but now I'm thrilled. Thrilled.'

'A lounge baby then,' I said light-heartedly to cover over my immediate lack of emotion at the announcement. Odd but true, we had better (less inadequate) sex on the sofa-bed than upstairs in our own bedroom (where Constance and Julie both slept when visiting). Maybe I should have tried to focus Acklow's learning onto that enigma.

'It's perfect timing. If we'd left it any later they'd be too far apart to play together when they got older. Crystal, you'll adore him. We'll have to move of course. Get somewhere bigger. How about Finchley, or Barnet.'

'Not yet. Can we finish breakfast.' Having been sidelined by Harriet over Crystal's nurturing, I was short on enthusiasm second time round.

'I don't want to tell anyone yet, not even Mummy.' She carried her bowl through to the sink, and on her way back stopped to wipe Crystal's face. She plonked a kiss on her fair head, and moved sideways to plonk one on me too, on the dark uncombed mess that was my hair. 'I'm sorry. Let's dump Acklow. Let's move on. It's a waste of money. And, anyway I think you're winning. The weather's looking reasonable. It's Southampton on Friday isn't it. Merriweather had better make it, or I'll kick his ass.'

Harriet. Harriet. Harriet. She could make me feel so bad, so un-able; and then, in an instant, she could turn me round.

***

Merriweather. After a full five year term in which the Lib-Dems had worked effectively with minority support from the Green Party, there was a long-awaited general election that very Thursday, and Horace, who was contesting a seat for the first time in the Southampton Test constituency, had insisted we come to a celebration/commiseration party on Friday. Before being selected by the local Progressive Party group, thanks in part to his friendship with the Member for Southampton Itchen, up-and-coming Terrance Spoon, one local paper had strongly objected to Horace on the grounds that he had no connection with the area. He responded immediately by buying, and moving to, a house in Totton, which was the venue for the gathering. Nevertheless, he retained the Kensington pad (which, conveniently for me, was near The Photography Place), as a useful London base, not only for scooting to Westminster, but for too many short-term love affairs with fickle boys.

Initially, Harriet had dismissed the idea of us making a weekend of it, and ordered that I should go alone, but, having announced her pregnancy at breakfast, by nightfall she had organised a weekend holiday, starting with Horace's party. It also included a day-trip to Cowes, a visit to my grandmother's memorial in the scented remembrance garden at Parsonville (at my request), and Sunday lunch with my mother on the way back.

Horace's commitment and hard work paid off. He was elected with a slim majority, lower than his predecessor who had retired, but better than the local polls had been predicting. He joined a larger group of opposition right-wing MPs than there had been in the previous parliament. The Liberal Democrats were again the largest party, but their leader, Adam Jones, found himself forming a government not only with the Greens (claiming no less than three cabinet ministers) but also ­ incredibly ­ the Republican Party. The Green Party, which had only been able to tinker with government policy during the previous administration, was to wield far more power in the coming years.

As for the coalition with the Republicans, it was widely known that Jones was not in favour of abandoning a monarchy, but that, during his previous five years as prime minister, there had been reports of tetchy meetings with King Harry. The Liberal Democrats and the Greens had a majority of 12 in the new parliament and some argued that Jones could have made do without the seven Republican MPs. He foresaw, though, that he could use the Republicans to make life easier for himself in Parliament, while, at the same time, sending a political signal to Henry that it was time to win a few friends and influence people. Jones did not concede to the one Republican demand ­ for a referendum on the monarchy ­ until the spring of 30. Even though there was a huge majority for keeping the King and all his trappings, and the poll effectively ruined the Republican Party, Jones was harshly criticised from several sides both for getting into bed with the Republicans, and then for allowing the referendum so soon. Some historians, however, believe Jones saved the monarchy for the next half century. Without Jones's forthright approach, the king might have followed in his elder brother's wayward footsteps; and, without the early referendum, the Republican Party might have continued to expand.

Jones resigned a few weeks after the vote, insisting there had been no link between his decision to call a referendum and to resign. In Jonesy ­ The Autobiography, he claimed that, from the moment he made the deal with the Republican Party in 27, he had a good idea of how he would handle the issue, since he knew the referendum would have to come in the second half of the parliament, and he wanted to resign before the next election campaign. Moreover, he claimed it was for the sake of the Party that he planned to deflect onto himself some of the negative public opinion stemming from the decision to call the referendum. His selfless act did not make much difference: in 31 the public were scared by the rise of the First Tuesday Movement, greedily interested in a revived Conservative Alliance (dominated by the Progressive Party), excited by the formation of Caxton's People's Party, and very tired of the Lib-Dems.

Returning to Horace's party, my old school-friend was on outstanding form. Having spent the day dashing from one interview to another and touring the constituency thanking various groups and helpers, he was ready to have a drink, and let his hair down with a few friends. Apart from Harriet and me (with Crystal obediently asleep in a spare bedroom, from whence you could see the famous Eling tide-mill) there were 30 or so others. Timothy, Horace's younger brother who was training to be an accountant, kept everyone's glasses full. Horace's agent, whose name I forget, left early, but not before having a large group of us in stitches with a stream of electioneering jokes.

Not all of Horace's nearest and dearest were there. His parents, who had been staying in a plush hotel, had flown back to their villa in Nice that afternoon. Neither was Horace's then partner present, having not been invited. I, and the Great British public, found this out a couple of years later from a kiss-and-tell article in one of Caxton's rags. It effectively scuppered Horace's chances of being given a junior minister position during the short Conservative Alliance-People's Party coalition in the early 30s.

Terrance Spoon (who was to be a minister in the 30s and prime minister for three short years in the 40s) dropped in to the party for a few minutes, no longer than he could remain the centre of attention. We all stopped our conversations to gather round him and Horace. Spoon asked us to drink to one of 'the youngest and certainly the brightest' of the new intake; and Horace asked us to raise a glass 'to a gifted politician who will go far, very far'. There was loud applause, but I slipped out of the room to check on Crystal. I gently tried to pull a thumb out of her mouth, but when she threatened to wake, I desisted. I wonder to this day if Horace had not pinned his banner so firmly to Spoon's rickety flagpole, whether he might not have achieved more than he did, despite the early setback caused by Caxton's scandalmongering.

***

But, before Caxton embarrassed Horace, he got me. More than 18 months after the first pay-off, Carter returned into my life. A phone call came in early January 2027. Carter said it would be to our 'mutual advantage' if we started talking again on a regular basis. The Euronet Agency in Warsaw was due to launch the three tier Euronet system a year hence, on 1 January 28. By this time, I had been given more responsibility to guide the policy and legislative interface between London, Brussels and Warsaw. Duck remained my chief, but his own portfolio of jobs had widened, which meant I often dealt directly with junior government ministers, or, by cam-conference, with high-ranking officials in the European Commission and the Agency. In late 26, the Commission put forward new draft laws affecting the launch and operation of the Agency and its regulated system. It was necessary, the proposal said, to close various loopholes that had come to light, and improve the efficacy of the already approved legislation in ways that had not been imagined earlier. In addition, the Commission finally put forward draft guidelines on Unacceptable Content.

Before concluding with the lurid details of my own particular involvement in the matter, I need to explain about Unacceptable Content. Within ten years of the internet being widely available and used in the home, there was already general concern that it could lead to unfortunate and unacceptable consequences for society. In some parts of the less-democratic world, governments were able to exercise a high degree of control over their citizens' access from the beginning; but in the free western world, where unfettered access had been championed from day one by those who had developed the concept of the internet, and where data privacy was of public concern, it was more challenging to prove the need for control, and consequently to set up effective regulation. The early Euronet had failed to expand, but damning evidence against the unregulated net continued to accumulate. This evidence took two main forms: the exposure of sites linked to illegal activities, such as terrorism, paedophilia, racism or human-trafficking; and sociological and psycho-sociological research showing how certain net activities (particularly pornography, gambling and netgaming) were undermining elements of society's social fabric.

Although there were, of course, several sides to every argument, by the late 2010s, the weight of opinion was beginning to coalesce around the view that, for example, the widespread, cheap and easy availability of hardcore pornography to young people, especially teenagers, was contributing to a worringly high proportion of single and socially inadequate men, an acceleration in the breakdown of marriages and long-term relationships, and a continuing decline in the birthrate. The EVE movement, which expanded rapidly and became a very effective lobby during the debate on Unacceptable Content, emerged rather belatedly in response to the pornography explosion during the early part of the century. In some ways, the gambling issue was similar, since, as with pornography, the internet made it possible and very easy, for a large number of youngsters (impressionable and still developing their characters) to indulge in, and become addicted to, a habit which for many people, as the research shows, led them into life-ruining situations. And, with regard to netgaming, there were serious concerns about permanent psychological damage to some individuals (focused on a concept called 'general alienation' and, more specifically, on bursts of 'random violence').

There had been no attempt to define Unacceptable Content in the original proposals that Firey, Brian and I had worked on in Brussels. The European Commission's aim had been to win agreement on having a harmonised censorship regime (as an inevitable consequence of the regulated three tier system) but to leave decisions on the details of that censorship for the Agency itself to work out. By then, as I learned at LSE, it had become a standard practice of the Commission to try and draft legislation so cunningly that the most highly-charged political issues would be put to one side at the outset. Thus, the negotiating parties could focus their attention on the less complicated aspects, in the mistaken or naive belief that the contentious stuff might be left on the shelf forever. However, according to the strategy, which worked surprisingly often, once the framework legislation was in place, the pressure would build for better practical application and more detailed legislation; moreover, in the meantime, the EU's member states and their citizens would become incrementally accust-omed to the new ground rules. At the time, it did not appear that the strategy was working in this case. The long delays in agreement on the new Euronet Regulation were partly caused by some countries awkwardly insisting on an early and clear definition of Unacceptable Content.

Ultimately, the European Union had only been able to adopt the new Euronet legislation in 25 because a decision on the details of what material the Agency would prohibit was deferred. The legislation stated that the operational and content guidelines for the business-oriented Euronet (Doré) and the academic Euronet (Sage) would be decided by the Agency's management board which included officials from the member states and the European Parliament. But, for the basic Euronet (Solar), which was to be an open net, guidelines for Unacceptable Content would be drafted by the Commission and then agreed by the Council and the Parliament. Working documents from Brussels, and policy positions from various member states about the issue, crossed my desk on a regular basis, but it was not until the draft guidelines were presented in December 26, that real negotiations (as opposed to Commission brainstorming sessions, expert witness symposiums, media punditry and political posturing) started in earnest. It was tough going, but the guidelines were adopted as EU law during 28 (leading, finally, to the actual launch of the three tier Euronet the following July, 18 months later than planned). Although, the guidelines were not as rigid as many, such as those in the EVE movement, wanted, they were much tighter than the FreeNet movement, in unholy alliance with privacy campaigners, had demanded. Furthermore, the fact that they existed at all meant it would become much easier thereafter to adjust them, tightening or loosening strands of the policy according to the winds of political and social change.

(Flora has just whirred in and out. She persuaded me to switch a corner of my screen back to the cricket. England scored 359 against the Australian/Indian bowlers, Australia were all out for 306 by the 45th over against the England/Indian attack, and India are now 323 for 7 with four overs left against the best of England/Australia with one substitution remaining. If England win, it will be their first ever victory in a triangular against these two sides at Lords, so Flora says. Crickatistics ­ a refined obsession!)

And so, back to Carter's phone call in December 26. I refused to talk to him. But, when I had cut him off a second time and he took such a bullying tone on the third attempt, I feared he might turn up at our front door. So, foolishly, I listened to what he had to say. Either his voice had deepened over time, or else it was a different person. I didn't care. He asked for more of the same, straightforward information on the negotiations about, and progress with, the proposals on Unacceptable Content. He offered the same stick and carrot: exposure of my relationship with Lola if I refused to play ball, and, this time, 100,000 euros if I agreed.

A more practical, sensible sort of person would have closed down his Velocity subscription and chosen a non Caxton-owned net service provider. But, on receiving my first pay-off, it had seemed too much trouble, and, I suppose, I never considered I would be of any further interest to Caxton.

If I am honest (and I continue to write these Reflections trying not to compromise the truth in any respect), I do not believe the money swayed my decision, it was more the fear of my onanistic habits being exposed to Harriet, my mother, my colleagues and all ­ however harmless they were in comparison to much else around. Nevertheless, I did think the money would come in handy. By this time, Harriet had run up substantial debts, and was paying excessive interest rates on bank and credit card loans. She had never mentioned the debts, nor had I hinted that I knew about them. When she asked that the monthly sum I paid into her account for housekeeping be increased, I agreed without question. I also helped by paying whenever we went out or bought anything together, which had not been the case previously. As far as I could tell, from her paperwork (The Gold Rush and For Your Eyes Only were among the gaming companies I saw on her credit card statements), the debts began not long after Crystal was born. When Harriet returned to work at the end of her maternity leave, and during the 12 months that followed, she came close to clearing her debts. Then, not long before we started therapy, when she had become dissatisfied with me and her life, the debts began escalating again. I puzzled a lot about when and how she was finding the time or privacy to lose so heavily. Her computer was situated in a corner of the lounge, and it was rarely switched on when I was in the house. On most days, though, in the period I am talking about (after she had returned to quasi full-time work and when Crystal's daycare was shared between a nanny and a local kindergarten), Harriet was at home for an hour in the morning after me, and for an hour or more in the evening before I got back. Yet, when I returned from work unexpectedly early, she invariably appeared busy enough with Crystal. Given Harriet's general reluctance to discuss anything personal and her surly and uncooperative behaviour at the time, it was my thought that I might catch her in the act, and this would spur a confession. I never did. (Nor, I should add, did Harriet ever surprise me with my pants down, as it were, in the study. I needed a good 15-20 minutes in private time twice a week, and I usually chose late at night when Harriet was asleep.)

I did not seriously consider how I would explain to Harriet the gain of 100,000 euros, nor how I would manage to give a large part of it to her without admitting I knew about the gambling debts. But the thought of the money did, as I say, comfort me, for a while.

I gave Carter what he wanted for nine months. His calls came less often than before, but they still came. That summer Harriet confessed, but didn't want to discuss, having temporary money problems, so I asked Carter for a goodwill payment of 30,000 euros. He gave me 20,000, in cash. Months later, on Saturday 16 October, the day after Harriet's birthday, a stocky man with dark glasses and claiming to be Carter sidled up to me in Grange Park where I was watching Crystal in the playground bopping around on a funny spring chair with ears. He did not look at me, but stood by my side.

'We've had new instructions.'

'We?'

'You and me. I've been given them to pass on to you. The chief is very pleased with the way things are going.'

'The chief? You mean Caxton?' On the phone, he had never referred to any other person or to having received any instructions.

'I've 30,000 euros to give you right now, and the other 50,000 will be yours by the end of November, at the latest.' He paused. 'If.'

'If?'

'If we can ... how shall I put this? ... do a bit of nudging.'

A bit of nudging! Having reeled me in with relatively innocent (I had to believe that) information-gathering activities, Caxton now wanted me to try and influence the direction of UK policy, not on anything too obvious, too political, but on some techno-legal issues. I protested that I had no influence at all, but Carter knew well enough from our many conversations that my position allowed me to argue points of view and to draft possible responses to external suggestions. I tried to appeal to Carter's reason that it would be considered uncharacteristic of me if I were to start pressing too firmly on any particular issue. He said he was confident of my ability to ensure this would not happen. We stood there in silence for a short while. When Crystal stumbled on her way from the bouncy mouse to the climbing frame, I darted forward to help her get up and to flick off some wood chips that had stuck to the side of her coat. She tried to pull away from me, but, for a second, I wouldn't let her. I half twisted her body round so she would be looking at me, and so I could kiss her cheek.

'Daddy loves you,' I whispered.

'Very touching,' Carter said, with conviction, on my return to his side. 'I like kids.' And then he started to explain how this new stage in our relationship would work, and how it would involve me receiving, now and then, a few papers. I stopped him talking.

'Carter, I'm not doing this. I'm not going any further. You can tell Caxton, he's not getting another thing from me. I'm finished with this deceit. You can keep your money, and please don't call again.' I moved round to take the pushchair and wheel it over to reclaim Crystal from the climbing frame.

'You're making a mistake Fenn, I've seen what the chief does to others.'

'I don't care. I don't care.' I did care, but Caxton had misjudged how far he could drive this particular animal to his slaughter.

Carter tried to persuade me to change my mind by phone twice, although he was clearly constrained in what he could say without incriminating himself, and once more in person, again in Grange Park. Implicit in these conversations was the threat of exposure in the Daily Truth, not only of my relationship with Lola, but also my 'spying' activities, and Harriet's gambling problem (thankfully, Harriet was never to discover that anyone but me knew about this). Yet, I remained resolute to have no further dealings with him or Caxton. I would like to think that Caxton's demands had finally awoken my moral sensibility, and that I stopped being a spy because I wanted to do the right thing, behave in the right way. I suspect, though, that my decision was sparked by a catalytic conjunction of common sense with self-preservation. Had I gone any further, I would have been Caxton's forever.

For about one month, over Christmas, my birthday and into the new year, I lived in a state of near-happy delirium. Carter's calls stopped, and there was no media intrusion into my life whatsoever. As each day passed, I felt more sure that I had called Caxton's bluff and won. Harriet had taken maternity leave already in the middle of December. She was the size of a sumo wrestler, but, as when she was pregnant with Crystal, she was full of good humour and generosity. She positively enjoyed playing mother and housewife during this time. Our second child was due in the third week of January.

The call came on 4 January, a Tuesday morning before I had left for work. A high-pitched male voice introduced himself as a journalist from the Daily Truth. He said he needed an interview that very morning so I could put my side to a story which was of great concern to the General Public. I stood there, in my office room, stunned, petrified. I could sense my life crumbling instantly all around me in many different directions. My initial thought was to put the phone down immediately, but then I decided I should find out what the hack was planning to write. I considered calling Tom's solicitor who I had met once, but, in that moment, the issue was still a personal, private one and it seemed unnecessary to discuss it with a lawyer. So, I agreed to meet the journalist mid-morning in a guzzleshop more than a kilometre from Yorkshire House.

He was stocky, middle-aged, and had a face with rat-like features. I may have imagined the last bit. The interview lasted less than five minutes. He would not tell me where the story came from, and what was in it. I would not tell him when I last had sex with Harriet or other intimate details he badgered me for. Nor was I prepared to comment on the suitability of an internet porn addict being involved with government policy on internet policy regulation. I returned to work, informed my secretary that I was not feeling well, and made my way back to Torbay Road. Harriet was asleep on the sofa, and the screen was showing her favourite soother (slow-motion shots of seabirds in flight with Satie piano music on low). Crystal was at the kindergarten for the first time since Christmas. I sat down so I could watch her sleeping for a while. She looked uncomfortable, half propped up against the sofa's arm-rest, cushions pushed in to support her back, and her legs bent up and slightly apart. I understood so little about what made this woman tick that I had no idea how she would react. Nevertheless, I felt I had to make some attempt to talk to her about it before the story appeared the next day. I put on the kettle, made a pot of her favourite menthol tea, and brought a tray into the lounge. I switched off the media console, and gently woke her.

In an uncharacteristic emotional gush of words, I apologised for everything: for waking her, for deceiving her, for allowing this to happen so close to the new birth, for letting us both down, for bringing shame on our family. I begged her not to interrupt while I explained myself in full. With some effort she did keep quiet, but then she soon began looking away and shutting her ears, I expect. In conclusion, I pleaded, like a weasel, that I wasn't so bad because I had, after all, put an end to the matter with Carter before deserting my principles altogether; and, lamely, I suggested that getting my rocks off through pornography was hardly a capital crime. When, finally, I stopped, having only omitted the sordid details of my relationship with Lola (I fully expected these to be listed in graphic detail by the Daily Truth), Harriet grimaced. It was a horrible grimace. I sat there sheepishly, helpless.

The next day the article, with three photos (one of a Marilyn Monroe-type blonde bombshell), appeared on page five of the Daily Truth with a flash on page one. In addition, the story took a head position on the Truth netsites, and was distributed to 25 million subscribers around the world, via a free advertising-packed email.

I read the story first on the internet in the middle of the night. Then, before dawn, I went out and bought a copy of the newspaper. This was the only time I ever paid money for the rag. Although brimming with shame, especially at the thought of my family and friends finding out about this private behaviour of mine, I was very relieved that there was no hint of the information-gathering activities. I guessed, at the time, it would have been too difficult for Caxton/Carter to make accusations in my direction without implicating themselves either immediately or later were an official enquiry to ensue. At 6am, the phones started ringing so I put them on automatic. In those days, the privacy laws were as ineffective at prohibiting unsolicited pestering calls on personal phones as they were at protecting net data abuse. I rang my mother to give her the gist, and said I would speak to her later. I emailed Tom too, and suggested we meet at the end of the week. Harriet had dressed Crystal and given her breakfast. We ignored the doorbell rings, and, when I took Crystal to the kindergarten, I politely refused to talk to the reporters waiting in the street. By the time I returned, my wife had read the paper. She was in fighting mode. This was not a personal predicament I had to face alone, but a practical problem she and I would overcome together.

Over breakfast, we agreed there was no question of legal action, or any initiative on our part that might propagate the story. This meant no interviews of any kind (Harriet called her mother later and forced a promise out of her to keep mute, which was very much against her nature), and the immediate cancellation of any telecom services owned, or partially-owned, by Caxton, and their replacement, which was a pain to organise. Otherwise, our main objective was for me to keep my job. I took Harriet's advice on this. In a crisis, she was the perfect commander, my very own Churchill. She told me, for example, that humility was absolutely out of the question, as was any appeasement of my superiors. I was to take a firm line and stick to it, whether in conversation with my colleagues, or in any written memos to my seniors: the Daily Truth accusation concerned a personal matter and had no connection at all with my work or the way I carried out my duties.

I should acknowledge that Harriet never once made a snide remark or any comment about Lola (unlike my father), nor did she refer to my behaviour as debasing me or her or us. Some three months or so after Bronze was born, she restarted our regular bouts of passion-less sex on Saturday night as though nothing untoward had occurred to affect that side of our relationship.

A few follow-up articles appeared in different media, mostly in those owned by Caxton; but, within ten days, the journalistic intrusions had died out. Thus, by the time Bronze was born, on 25 January, our life had quietened down. Again Harriet decided on the name without any input from me. Gold was common for boys and girls by then. I thought it far too ostentatious and/or ambitious. Silver had a touch of class. The name Bronze was unusual, although it did become more common later. To my mind, it suffered from being the metal used for third place medals, and, as such, indicated lesser quality. At that time, though, Harriet had taken to the colour bronze and was buying knick-knacks made of the alloy. Most of all, she liked the sound of Crystal and Bronze together. Oddly, after our divorce, she declined to insist on the children taking her family name, Tilson (although Bronze did later). She had always disliked it, partly because her mother's full name, Constance Tilson, stuck on the tongue. Bronze was anything other than bronze, though, as a Mediterranean baby might have been. He was pale and thin. I couldn't help thinking 'poor little bugger' for arriving in the midst of all our troubles.

The media interest may have flattened out quickly, but I still had to deal with the fall-out at work, and among my friends.

At work, Harriet's strategy worked admirably. I ignored/resisted any suggestion that I should take the simple way out by seeking a job in the private sector. I declined paternity leave for fear that, in my absence, rumours would proliferate. Within a month of the article, I was offered a sideways move to the Industry and Technology Department. I decided to take it. Duck, who acknowledged my contribution to the section, was 'very sorry' to let me go. The same cannot be said of Phil Rumble. He cold-shouldered me in the Yorkshire House canteen; and, in advance of a long-planned inter-departmental volleyball match, he sent me an email, copied to the team members, asking me to step down 'to save the team's embarrassment'. On Harriet's cue, I resisted, continued to keep my head high and made no concessions to ignominy. When no-one else in the team backed Phil he found an excuse not to play. At around the same time, Harriet had tried calling Melanie, Phil's partner, to tell her about Bronze, but Melanie would not speak to her. That was the end of our three year friendship. More than a decade later, I ran into Phil at the retirement cocktail party of some high-level civil servant. He apologised for having been such a prig all those years earlier. He told me that Melanie, by then his ex-wife, had been a committed member of the EVE movement at the time, and had, he said, 'infected' him with her views. When I asked why we had never seen this side of either of them at dinner or during pushchair walks on Hampstead Heath and in Greenwich Park, Phil explained that, because of my work, he had always insisted Melanie steer clear of any related subjects. He went on to embellish his apology ­ needlessly and cringingly ­ by telling me that, when Melanie had walked out on him, he too had found plenty of comfort in the virtual world.

The Daily Truth article had no lasting impact on any of my other relationships. With few exceptions, if the subject was mentioned in conversation with friends, the discussion focused on the role of the media and the privacy laws. I never did talk to my mother about it any further. During one of the two weekends between the article's publication and the birth of Bronze, I met up with Tom, for the first time in ages, at a cinema bar. He found my troubles amusing and could not resist making the odd joke about Bangkok, and his own (non-virtual) sexual demeanours. I found him irritating, and was quite relieved when we were called in to the film. I think it was a new print of Bus Stop. If not then, we saw it a few months later. I remember because Tom leaned over at the appearance of Marilyn Monroe.

'There's Lola. Ha ha.'

A few weeks later, I tried to write an email to Alan encompassing both the news of Bronze's arrival and the Daily Truth business. But to someone as close as Alan, I couldn't make any sense of the latter without revealing the blackmail aspects, and I was not prepared to do so. It would be another five years before I told anyone other than Harriet, and that would be on the night of Caxton's murder.

Horace Merriweather was too busy being a good Member of Parliament to see me much in 28. He came to Torbay Road, self-consciously incognito with a scarf wrapped round the lower half of his face, to inspect Bronze. I went once to Kensington where we spent the evening talking politics. It was more than a year before we met in public again. I suppose he was right to be cautious, but I couldn't help feeling a mild sense of satisfaction when it was his turn to be laid bare before the public ('My MP lover hid me away'). I made a point of inviting him to lunch at a very public restaurant soon after the article appeared and while he was still being hounded. He did not take the opportunity, as Phil would do much later, to apologise for having ostracised me. I doubt if he realised he had done so. He was great company, and a good friend in other ways (especially as I never expected too much), so I did not take offense.

Thinking back on the whole degrading episode, as I have done from time to time during my life, it struck me as bizarre that our society, which had become so inured to sex in general, maintained such a taboo about masturbation. In the late 20th century and in the 21st century, it became common to talk about all kinds of sexual activities, to read about them in books and magazines, and for them to be flaunted in mainstream films and advertising, yet these were never, or very rarely, of the onanistic variety. Social scientists who attempted to understand this taboo by regarding it as one driven by evolutionary mechanisms to maintain the species, could not, in the same argument, explain Western society's near universal acceptance of homosexuality.

Needless to say my relationship with Lola did not end. Soon after changing my net service provider, I was back on line and thanking her for being discreet: I doubted not that the Daily Truth had sought her/him out and that the picture of her was a fiction. She sent me back a message confirming the absolute confidentiality of her client relationships, but thanking me in return, with a double exclamation mark, for the publicity.

I thought carefully before deciding to dredge up this matter here in these Reflections. I even discussed it with Jay. He could see no reason to mention that side of my life at all. I think, to be fair, he was simply embarrassed. I am sure the Daily Truth article was not much noticed in the wider world ­ after all it was only published because Caxton wished for revenge. As scandals go, it was distinctly minor, and it may have sunk into the mire of my unwanted and unremembered memories but for one thing. Years later, when I was important enough to be the subject of a few media profiles, the topic was often dragged into the interview, as a piece of unpleasantness that had to be dealt with, like a dirty nappy in the car, or a rotting mouse in the closet. And thus Caxton's intrusion became a blight on my life, one that I would have to explain to my partners and children in turn, and, occasionally, to important people who were trying to decide if I was a fit person to take on a particular task. My use of Harriet's strategy might not have persuaded journalists to omit that part of my life from their profiles, but it was sufficient to protect me against further prejudice in professional and practical ways. Ironically, by the time I had moved to Holland and become involved with the beginnings of the International Fund for Sustainable Development, I was already grateful to Caxton (about-to-be-deceased) for having inadvertently diverted my career.

There is one more consequence of the Daily Truth article I wish to mention. A few days before Bronze was born, I received a call in my office at Yorkshire House from the reception desk on the ground floor. A man, who would not give his name, wished to see me on a personal matter. When I asked if he was a journalist, the receptionist's voice descended to a confidential whisper and told me that my visitor looked very unkempt and distracted. It was Rob, brother of Melissa, my school girlfriend. The receptionist had not exaggerated. His unshaven face, wild hair, and torn, stained overcoat suggested he might have been living rough. He did not say so, but I assumed media coverage had triggered his memory and signalled how to find me. I took him to a nearby guzzleshop and bought him a late lunch. At first he remained surly, and made no attempt to tell me why he had sought me out. I asked questions about where he had been, what he was doing and whether his mother was well, which elicited scant information. I thought he might have wanted to talk about Melissa, but I was being too generous. It was money he wanted, money for drugs.

Neither Harriet nor I were given to helping those less fortunate than ourselves. We did not take in stray cats, for example, or worry about the homeless; nor, as we were regularly being urged to, did we help out at the old peoples' home round the corner from Torbay Road. But I couldn't turn Rob away. I called Harriet to explain the situation. Since she was in a happy pregnant state, overloaded with natural stimulants, she agreed to invite him to the house. We insisted he shower, lent him clean clothes, and gave him wine and food. He talked with a stutter and with his head bowed, and he often contradicted himself.

Much affected by his sister's coma, he had left school and home at 16, and moved to London. Under the liberal drug regime introduced by the Lib-Dems/Labour coalition in the late 10s, Rob had been drawn into the use of cannabis and other decriminalised substances. With a group of Scavengers, he learned how to get by without a regular job and to use harder drugs. Then he followed a heroin addict to Hamburg, where a crusading doctor put him on high doses of Solama. This stabilised him for a while. He held down a job for some months. Unfortunately the income helped him feed a growing, and illegal, chemical habit. He came back to England in 26 when his mother died. After selling the house she had part-owned and paying various debts, he had less than 30,000 euros. He moved back to London, found a pad with druggy friends, and squandered the money. Since then, he had been living on the streets, in turns angry, desperate, ill, and suicidal. He had enrolled on various rehabilitation programmes but never lasted the course. The police stopped and searched him regularly but never arrested him. All he wanted from me was money for more chemicals, to relieve for a few hours the unrelenting hopelessness of his life.

Rob made my problems appear negligible. He stayed the night on the sofa. Neither Harriet nor I had any idea how to help. We knew from the media, and from what we saw in the streets occasionally, that Rob was by no means an isolated case. In the morning, before he woke, I made calls to my mother and a couple of friends who I thought might know more than we did. I was given a few addresses and telephone numbers of rehab centres and recovery houses, and advised not to get involved. I didn't. We gave Rob breakfast, the contact details I had gathered, and 200 euros. And we said goodbye.

Only when he had gone and Harriet and I had reassured ourselves that there was nothing else we could do, did I allow myself a few still-strong nostalgic, pleasurable and sorrowful, memories of Melissa.

***

Chintz caught me this evening indulging in an old Movie Martyr flick ­ Time and Sight. The artist's name was familiar but she had never seen one of her films. Chintz drew up a lounge chair and sat down by the side of the bed and watched the screen with me in silence. At the sad bit, where Movie Martyr's mother goes blind (her editing is over-sentimental on occasions, but this in no way diminishes the acuity of her observations), I saw Chintz cry and somehow she reminded me of Crystal as a vulnerable infant, crying often.

Harriet was not a good mother. Have I said this before? She tried in fits and starts, but she never knew instinctively what to do; and, as often as not, she chose the wrong approach. When things were not going well, she distanced herself from the problem without letting anyone else (me, for example) deal with it. The problems with Crystal stemmed partially from Bronze's ill-health. As a child, as a teenager and as an adult, I can barely remember a time when Bronze was not complaining of some disorder or other. It is true that he was cursed with a body that did not function very well, but he never grew to compensate for that, instead his mental and physical life acted to exaggerate his misfortunes. I do blame Harriet partly. Unlike with Crystal, she pandered to his every whinge, scratch, cough and tear which only encouraged more whingeing, more scratching, more coughing and more crying. It started not long after he was born and went on, as far as I know, for most of his childhood and beyond. This was not only bad for Bronze, to my mind, but unfortunate for Crystal too. Harriet had never bonded with Crystal in the way mothers are supposed to bond with their children, especially their daughters, as happens in story books and breakfast cereal advertisements. Crystal was a job, a chore for Harriet, rather than a pleasure or a passion. The job was containable while Crystal was a baby, but became seriously troublesome when Crystal moved into toddlerhood. By the time Bronze came along, Harriet was ready to divert her attention to the new baby. Crystal became irritable and demanding which only alienated Harriet further.

During the summer after Bronze was born, we bought a 20 year old four-bedroom semi-detached house in Lacey's Lane, Willesden. That was the summer when the worst floods in modern history, driven by a cyclone and a tidal wave in Bengal Bay, killed nearly half million people in eastern India and Bangladesh. The world watched horrified as the death toll mounted day by day. When Alan first visited us in Lacey's Lane, he had recently returned from the area. He told horrific stories about how whole towns in the Ganges delta had simply disappeared without trace, how millions of people were lost and homeless, and how large areas of Calcutta looked like a war-zone. Alan blamed the United States for failing to back the Kyoto Protocol on climate change 30 years previously, and for refusing to support actively further measures beyond it. To his mind, because of that failure, the 2008 Delhi Annex and 2019 Hague Protocol came too late, and delivered too little. The floods all over the world, not only in the Indian subcontinent that year (28) were, though, to rekindle efforts on greenhouse gas control, and focus new efforts on climate damage response.

The Lacey's Lane house we (by which I again mean Harriet) chose was in reasonable decorative condition. Harriet was already back at work and did not want to live in a building site. I took the rear upstairs room for my office. From there I could glimpse a speck of green in Gladstone Park, which sported a more adventurous playground than Grange Park. Harriet and I talked at length about the advantages of a live-in nanny, but, thankfully (for I had no wish to live with a stranger), Harriet decided to manage without. However, I suspect that the succession of temporary nannies, childminders and childminding arrangements we employed did nothing to diminish our children's later problems. I blame myself as much as Harriet. With Bronze in her lap, she was less proprietorial over Crystal, and, if I had persevered, I might have been able to give our daughter more self-assurance. Unfortunately, she never showed much interest in me, and only ever wanted Harriet's attention. When tantrums didn't work, she became withdrawn, sullen and silent, sucking her thumb excessively and watching the virtually realistic cartoons for hours.

I seem to be drawing this chapter to a close on a down beat, so I shall delay writing about the end of our marriage ­ not that there is much more to say ­ until another day. Instead I plan to conclude what I have to say about Caxton here and now so as to ensure he does not muscle his way into any further chapters.

He was, without doubt, one of the most extraordinary public figures of this or any other century. Others have likened him to a youthful cross between Beaverbrook and Berlusconi, two larger-than-life characters in recent European history, from whom he said he learned a great deal. A key characteristic of all three men was that their ambitions could not be contained within commerce but needed a political arena. If Caxton had lived, who knows what his special combination of brilliance, populism and thuggery might have achieved. Not content with a media and telecoms empire that had become nigh on as large as possible under the EU's competition laws, and had coiled its tentacles around many enterprises in third countries such as Russia and China, Caxton set up his own political party. By no coincidence, he launched the People's Party, with great fanfare and a huge party at Wembley arena, on 1 July 28, the very day the new three tier Euronet went live. I received two invites to the party, one at work (signed by the campaign manager) and one at home signed by Caxton himself. It said, and I quote exactly: 'Bygones? ­ The People's Party could use a man like you.' How he had the time and the memory to keep me, a very minor pawn, so firmly in his sights, I have no idea. I took pleasure in tearing up both invitations, but regretted my actions when I saw the spectacular show broadcast onscreen. After his death, I also lamented not having kept the personal invitation as a keepsake.

The history books show well enough that the People's Party, and its supporting media, campaigned heartily with most other political parties (excluding the Republicans and Greens) for keeping the monarchy in 30. It then went on to win 50 or so seats in the 31 elections and to form a government in coalition with the Conservative Alliance, with John Lyndquist as prime minister. Caxton, after supposedly distancing himself from his commercial empire, was made minister for an expanded Department of Industry, Technology and Enterprise. Thank goodness I had already moved on to the Department of the Environment. Following his murder, the People's Party, which had been constructed on the foundations of the megalomaniac's money and ambition, imploded in slow-motion. The coalition government collapsed within months, but Lyndquist formed a new coalition, this time, to everyone's astonishment, with the Green Party, which had already spent much of the 20s in government allied to the Liberal Democrats. Gregory, the controversial pop-historian, has a lot of time for Caxton who, he believes, brought a welcome tornado of change into the European media industry, and provided an important brake on the ambitions of the regulators. Despite his great insight, I am not convinced Gregory knows as much about the man as I do.

As a final homage to Caxton, I am taking my last look at a reproduction I have on Neil of a collage created by the genius Tamson Bunting. At the centre is a camstill, as I first saw it in the tulip palace with Diana, of Caxton the moment after the bullet went through his head. Skillfully blended around the central picture are news and publicity camclips, merging in and out of each other, alternating in tones and tints, giving the impression, to me at least, of a complex powerful man with dark and grimy secrets. Zoom in on one eye in any representation of him, and you come out of another. Zoom in on the writing and the words transmute as you try and read them. For me, Bunting says more about Caxton in this piece than Gregory does with all his words.

Now also I am flicking through an archive of family snaps and clips from this period. There are not many as I was hopeless behind the lens, and Harriet only used a cam spasmodically. I realise that I have, inevitably, left out much of the detail from my life, our lives. For example, Harriet and I did a fair amount of travelling in the latter half of the 20s, although not often together. While I was at the Department of Communications and working on internet regulation, I made day trips to Brussels and two-day trips to Warsaw every few weeks. Three or four times a year, Harriet spent several nights in a major European city helping to promote Mandrill publications at a conference or a publicity event. I looked forward to her absences as they allowed me to pay more attention to Crystal and Bronze, not that they noticed.

Once or twice a year, we managed to get away together for a holiday. On the whole, these weeks were among the happiest of our times together. Harriet took a traditional view of how a holiday should be and therefore made a special effort. While on maternity leave, in the autumn of 25, we pushed Crystal's buggy around Florence and Rome, cramming both cities into one week. A year later, she decided we should go on an expensive club holiday to Morocco ­ not that we saw much of the country. The facilities for toddlers were excellent, as were the beaches. Harriet found some pleasure in tennis, while I hustled my volleyball skills.

And there was one holiday, to the Algarve, which has become my favourite memory of the four of us as a family. I recall none of the detail, but the character and sense of it became fixed in my memory by one photo. This one. We are on a sandy beach with unusual sandstone formations (arches and coloured layers) behind us. I can see the sea's edge, milky-yellow and then turquoise, to the side. All four of us are grouped together in the centre: Harriet, in a white t-shirt and white shorts, is cradling Bronze in her left arm; he has a khaki sun-hat protecting his tiny head. I am kneeling with Crystal. She is on my shoulders, also dressed in white with a pastel blue baseball cap. My hands clasp her ankles. Harriet has her right arm around Crystal's shoulder, and Crystal is holding, somewhat awkwardly, one of Bronze's hands. We have all been caught in a moment, unselfconscious, smiling and happy. Even Bronze looks as though life is treating him well.

NEWSPAPER CLIPPING

The Daily Truth (5 January 2028, page 5)

Civil Servant in Internet Porn Shocker
Communications official caught in compromising position
The Truth about our policy-makers

Kip Fenn, a senior official in the Department of Communications, employs a personal net madam. Her name is Lola, and there is no type of porn she will not commandeer for him.

We do not wish to go into detail since the Daily Truth is a family paper.

What is wrong with this, we ask ourselves. On the surface, nothing. Long may Lola serve her clients, so long as she does so within the law. (And we have no evidence that Lola has ever done anything illegal.)

But Mr Fenn is no ordinary civil servant.

Mr Fenn is part of one of several teams of public servants involved directly with assisting government in setting policy concerning the net, and its regulation.

Important negotiations are currently under way in the capitals of Europe on net regulation. Would you trust Mr Fenn to be involved in deciding Unacceptable Content?

We at the Daily Truth are strongly in favour of a free regime. We argue for a strictly enforced worldwide ban on pornography with violence, children or animals. Lock up anyone who makes or uses such filth forever. Otherwise, leave us grown-ups free to decide for ourselves.

For all we know, Mr Fenn, with his perversions, might take this same view and help in our campaign. But we cannot keep the Truth to ourselves. And no more do we wish to rely on perverted officials. We want the government to make the right policy because it is right. We do not want to rely on individuals who might pervert the course of action, whether in the right direction or not.

Can Mr Fenn go on working at the Department of Communications? We don't think so.'

Three photos:
A photo of Harriet, looking very pregnant, taken in Torbay Road.
Caption: 'We feel sorry for Harriet ­ the loving wife. Mr and Mrs Fenn have one child, with another on the way.'

A fake photo of Lola looking like Marilyn Monroe.
Caption: 'As a client for many years, Mr Fenn has been good business for Lola. Some estimates suggest there could be as many as 250,000 net madams.'

A photo of myself exiting Yorkshire House (with the building name clearly visible above the entrance).
Caption: 'Would you trust Mr Fenn to be fair about how to censor the net?'

EXTRACTS FROM CORRESPONDENCE

Kip Fenn to Alan Hapgood

June 2027

Thanks for your letter, and I'm sorry I haven't written for ages. Mum is well. She had her check-up recently, and everything was clear. When we saw her on Sunday (we lunched at the Barley Mow) she was very upbeat about her plans at Boxgrove for 'extending the definition of education'. She's been working on a pilot programme for years (I didn't know much about it), and now she's been given a bigger grant to expand on it.

I have news too. Harriet is pregnant AGAIN ­ only six weeks or so. She insists we keep this a secret (as you are in foreign parts, you don't count, but don't tell Mum). I should have been overjoyed at the news, but I wasn't. I feel a bit guilty about that, but Harriet didn't notice, and, to tell the truth, we had been having some difficulties. We saw a therapist. I won't go into details. Harriet's pregnancy, though, has brought us closer again, and I've started to become excited at the thought of a second child. Crystal's two now. In case you don't believe time is marching so fast, I've attached a photo Julie took. Doesn't she look a picture. She sucks her thumbs all the time, and has a tendency to talk gibberish for long periods. I imagine that's normal.

As I'm sure you've read, Adam Jones has agreed to form a government with the Greens (good news ­ your friend, Jill Asquith, may be our environment minister in a few days) and with the Republicans (I don't think many expected that). The Greens say the UK will now have to press the EU to accelerate the climate programme. I doubt Jones will have much choice.

Do you remember Horace Merriweather, one of my buds at Witley Academic. He and I (and, later, Jeff Zimmerman) were the top debating team for a couple of years. We've stayed friends since then. I'm not exactly sure why. He's a protégé of Terrance Spoon and has just been elected MP for Southampton Test. Harriet, Crystal and I went down there last Friday for a celebration party. On Saturday, we took the jetfoil to Cowes for a few hours. Harriet sailed a bit when younger, and was thinking we might take it up as a family. But her notions come and go as quickly as the wind changes direction.

And what's new with you, uncle of mine?

PS: While I remember them here's a couple of election jokes told me by Jekyll (Horace's agent when sober) and Hyde (a failed stand-up comedian when drunk).

1) Two friends are discussing politics on election day, each trying to no avail to convince the other to switch sides. Finally, one says to the other: 'Look, it's clear that we are unalterably opposed on every political issue. Our votes will surely cancel out. Why not save ourselves some time and both agree not to vote today?' The other agrees enthusiastically and they part. Shortly after that, a friend of the first one who had overheard the conversation says, 'That was a sporting offer you made,' to which the other replies, 'Not really, that's the seventh time I've done it today.'

2) 'Mummy, mummy, mummy, do all fairy tales begin with "Once upon a time"?'

'No, dear. Nowadays, lots of them start with "If I am elected ...".'

3) Finally it's the day of the UK general election. An innovative portable-type electronic voting machine, much improved on the previous version, is being used across the country. Then, in one local village hall a machine breaks down. The returning officer arranges for a support technician to be called in. One hour later he arrives and, after tinkering around for a few minutes, manages to repair it. As he comes out of the polling station, a poll volunteer asks, 'Well, is the machine fixed?' The technician thinks for a second, then before hurrying on to his next assignment, replies, 'Now, now, we don't like to use the f-word on election day.'

4) Have you heard the one about a man who walks down the street and is suddenly struck by a falling brick? 'What an outrage. You can't walk anywhere without a brick falling on your head,' cry the people who gather around. Then one of them notices the victim is a candidate in the forthcoming general election. 'What an outrage,' the crowd says, 'there are so many of these candidates there's no room for bricks to fall!'

Well, they were funny at the time.

Alan Hapgood to Kip Fenn

June 2027

Thanks so much for your letter. I haven't heard from Julie for a while, so I was glad of your news. I shall write her next.

Congratulations are in order. Do give my love and best wishes to Harriet. I know from my own experience all relationships go through ups and downs, so don't be disheartened. By having children, you've already taken a much more difficult route than I ever did. Crystal looks so pretty. I forgot her birthday. I was travelling until yesterday, but I'll send her a surprise soon. What about a Russian doll?

Horace, yes, I remember him. I came to watch you perform once. He was very confident and impressive in his speaking, while you were rather diffident and appeared to be in awe of him. I took you out for a meal afterwards. And what happened to Alfred, your volleyball bud? There was something very noble about him, he even towered over you.

Good for the UK Greens. Jill and I may have had our differences but that doesn't mean she won't make a good environment minister. Did I really tell you about our college flirtation (that was very indiscreet of me). It's not only in the UK that environment parties are making gains, I see it across Eastern Europe, in South America, and in some parts of southeast Asia. It's not surprising really, when you quantify, as we do at WWF, the rise in climate-related disasters of one type or another. (I'm sure I've told you, I've been working now for three years on a major report concerning the incidence of floods and related damage to homes, agriculture, etc.: when you take ten year rolling averages, the figures show a progression that is more geometric than arithmetic. The figures for actual loss of life are not so clear, but I fear the clarity will come.)

I'm back in Kiev now for a while. Keep in touch.

PS: Not to be outdone on the joke front, here's two golden oldies sent me by an American colleague.

1) In the beginning god decided to make the earth, but first he was under orders from CEPA (the angelically-staffed Cosmos Environment Protection Agency) to implement an environmental impact assessment. When he was ready, god appeared before the CEPA council. After some consideration, the council said it could see no practical use for earth since it was 'void and empty' and 'darkness was on the face of the deep'. So god suggested, 'Let there be light.'

This caused a further problem. One member of the CEPA council wanted to know how the light was to be made, and whether there would be strip mining, air pollution, nuclear contamination and/or defilement of the landscape with oilrig/windmill monstrosities. God explained that the light would come from a huge ball of fire. Nobody on the council really understood this, but, nevertheless, it was provisionally accepted, on certain conditions: no smog or smoke to result from the burning; a separate burning permit (to be awarded by a CEPA sub-committee); and, since continuous light would be a waste of energy, a halving of the burning time.

When asked by CEPA how the earth would be covered, god said, 'Let there be land made amidst the waters; and let it divide the waters from the waters.' No-one understood this either, nevertheless the Council decided that, before proceeding, god would be required to seek a further permit from IPBWM (the Inter-Planetary Bureau of Water Management).

The council then asked if there would only be water and land, which is when god said, 'Let the earth bring forth the green herb, and such as may seed, and the fruit tree yielding after its own kind.' The council agreed with this so long as all seeds were approved by UGA (the Universal Gene Authority). As to future development, god added, 'Let the waters bring forth the creature having life, and the fowl that may fly over the earth.' Here again, the council took no formal action since this would require a further approval by UGA.

The council was about to give its conditional approval when god explained that he needed to complete the project in six days. The council said his timing was completely out of the question since IPBWM and UGA between them would need 12-18 millennia, and thereafter CEPA itself would need a further few centuries.

On storming out, god yelled, 'To hell with it!'

2) President McFeather and his secretary of state are sitting in a zini lounge. A lady walks in and asks the barman, 'Heh, isn't that McFeather and Nielson?' The barman says, 'Yep, that's them.' So, the lady walks over and asks, 'Hi, what are you guys up to?' McFeather says, 'We're planning to invade Mexico.' The lady says, 'Really? Wow. What's going to happen?' McFeather answers, 'Well, we're going to imprison all Mexican immigrants, bomb Mexico from the east coast to the west coast, and close down the three taco guzzleshops on Broadway.' The lady exclaims, 'Heh, why are you gonna close down the taco guzzleshops?' McFeather turns to Nielson and says, 'See, I told you no-one would worry about the fate of the immigrants or what happens to Mexico.'

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Paul K. Lyons

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