Marginal Seat

Sir Marcus Duncombe was one of Declan's more frustrating customers. He would sit in the dark green barber's chair constantly on his phone, refusing to engage in conversation. Such was his distraction that Marcus wouldn't follow instructions when he needed a better angle to trim.

Declan's chair in the Houses of Parliament had seen many famous faces - and backsides - over his fifteen years running the shop. Secretaries of State, Ministers, even a serving Prime Minister, would all pop in to what they saw as a safe space away from the hustle and bustle of Westminster politics. A friendly face, fifteen minutes peace, and good conversation.

Well, on the whole. Except for Sir Marcus. I watched as Declan told him three times just to tip his head forwards to even out the line on his neck. All requests were ignored, so Declan gently helped him. A knock on the door, and a hopeful head popped round. Joey Thalk, an Opposition MP.

"I don't suppose you can fit me in, Declan?", he asked.

"Afraid not, mate, I'm stacked this afternoon," Declan replied.

"No probs," Joey replied with a pang of disappointment, his face disappearing back behind the stained glass pattern of the door, with a small “H” or “E” in each corner. I had been meaning to ask what they stood for.

Sir Marcus looked up and caught Declan's eye in the mirror.

"You told me I was the last today," Sir Marcus said. Declan was surprised the eminent MP had even heard him.

"Well, yes, Sir Marcus. But I'm not in the habit of doing favours for the Opposition," Declan said.

"Good man," said Sir Marcus, immediately getting back to the text message he was writing. "Nice glasses, by the way, they new?" he asked.

Declan had invested in some new AI glasses. Not prescription, but the technology helped when his hands were always busy.

He asked Sir Marcus to tilt his head back up again. And when he was ignored, he assisted. As he tipped his head back, the line of sight between Sir Marcus and his phone didn't change, and he lifted it up so he could continue to type. He was replying to a message from his assistant, which had said:

I'VE SPOKEN TO BT. THEY WON'T CHANGE THE PREFIX ON YOUR BILL.

Sir Marcus had been a recent recipient of a knighthood for services to politics and wanted everyone to know - even his utility providers. He typed furiously in response:

TELL THEM THEY HAVE TO, TELL THEM THE KING WILL BE UNHAPPY IF THEY DON'T.

I don’t think the Monarch has time for scrutinising the salutations used by telecommunications companies on their paperwork.

If there was ever an example of an honour going to a politician's head, it was this. Ensuring he got a good view of the screen, he tapped the side of his glasses and it took a photo. Sir Marcus paused, thinking he heard a click, but dismissed it. This was not information he would need now, but would come in handy on a slow news day.

He finished up with Sir Marcus, who paid me without leaving a tip, because of course he did. I handed Declan his Macbook. Once he had synced with his glasses, he uploaded the photo to the Media section of his website's backend and created a folder called "Sir Marcus Duncombe".

Declan had been running the Icarus Web project for fifteen years. The same amount of time he had been running his shop. He started it when he realised that all of these MPs and Lords would be rather indiscreet when they believed they were safe in his chair. He did so anonymously, of course. He didn't want to lose his cover. There had been times when he had come close over the years and felt like people were getting closer to finding out, and he was getting to the point of considering whether to get some stories slightly wrong in order to throw people off the scent.

However, there was enough fake news out there, and he didn't want his website muddied by lies. And he had built a position of trust with his 360,000 subscribers, a number he was quietly very pleased with himself about. He folded down the laptop and told me to join him for tonight’s festivities. I noticed a knowing smile on his face.

That evening, we walked into the House of Commons' Terrace Pavillion for the retirement party of Sir Herbert Edwards MP, who was standing down as the Chair of the influential Defence and Intelligence Committee. This is my account of the evening - the rest I know because Declan kept copious notes.

We wouldn't normally have been invited to something of this importance, but he had been cutting Sir Herbert's hair since his first day in the shop, and he was a gracious fellow.

I certainly didn’t expect to be there. A few other members of Parliamentary support staff had also been invited, as well as MPs, Peers, Ministers and journalists.

I could see that the five MPs who were desperate to take Sir Herbert's seat as the Chair of the Committee had already arrived and were pressing the flesh. I could see them all furiously networking; I cringed at the fake laughs and insincere reactions to the conversation. The wine is warmer than they are.

And they all wanted their five minutes with Sir Herbert, desperately seeking his endorsement in what would swing the contest in their favour. He was having none of it. Only one of the candidates kept his attention for any length of time and that was only because they were talking about cricket.

At this point, Eileen Hennis, one of the candidates, proceeded to walk towards us. She had her phone out, and there was a cold stare in her eyes. Her greeting was equally icy.

“I’ll give you credit, Declan,” she said. It took me a while to figure it out but I got there in the end.

She flashed the screen of her phone which showed screenshot of the Icarus Web from four weeks ago. It told how a member of the Committee had seen leaked intelligence ahead of the meeting, but was protecting the civil servant who had shared it with her. It meant that the Permanent Secretary, who was appearing at the Committee, got an especially hard time. And the Government was running an inquiry into the leak.

I looked at the timing and it was the day after she had seen him. Too close for comfort.

“I’m telling them all that it’s you!” she exclaimed, but still trying to keep her voice down.

I looked at the screen, and said “but it doesn’t name -“

Declan held his hand up to interrupt me. Probably for the best not to get involved.

“It’s probably best it stays that way,” Declan replied, the intent dripping in his voice. The price would be high if Eileen was discovered.

She stomped off, and didn’t enjoy the rest of her evening. Eventually the inquiry caught up with her and she resigned.

Next came Sue Pallen, another Committee veteran. Usually patient and forensic, she was slightly warmer in her approach.

“Have you seen the latest story, Declan? It’s fantastic. Really incisive and so well sourced. You have to give it to Icarus Web, they’ve changed politics and Westminster. I’m thinking of writing a book - an expose if you will - of Westminster's anonymous influencers. I’m sure you’d love to read it,” she said.

“You know what I’d like to read,” Declan replied. “Is a lengthy feature on politicians who have embellished their CVs for their own gain. Wouldn’t that be inconvenient for some people?”

I quickly rattled my brain for the reference. That’s it, Sue had been a little generous with her backstory. The fieldwork she did for an NGO. She claimed eighteen months service abroad, when in fact it was barely eighteen days, because she couldn’t stand the food.

Off she went to sulk with Eileen in the opposite corner of the room. She later told me that she had been practicing her lines all afternoon.

I noticed Sir Herbert was just about to walk to the lectern to give his speech, and Declan motioned for us to move before we were cornered again. But we were stopped by an inebriated, but very direct, Michael Hunt.

“Not so fast. I saw the other two walk off. I know you. I know who you are. I have a contact in the interweb who has given me the mepa data from your hosting provider that leads like breadcrumbs to your little barber shop chair.”

Michael swayed and held on to the doorframe to aid his balance. I’m sure he meant metadata.

“So this is what you’re going to do for me. A good piece about what a great chap I am, and I’m the only one who has a real chance of winning this Committee contest.”

“That sounds great, Michael. One problem though. You don’t have the metadata. You don’t have the tech know how to even call it by the correct name. If you did, you would know that that website is self hosted. And not in the UK.”

All of the colour drained out of Michael’s face. Declan had called his bluff, and it was magnificent. Sir Herbert was now in full flow at the lectern, with mild, polite laughter at his weakly constructed jokes and anecdotes. Having spent enough time in the shop, I’d heard most of these stories already, so many times, and embellished even further with each retelling.

There was a final attempt at a confrontation - the fourth of the five MPs, Derek Seymour. He had been waiting a while as he had been looking at us repeatedly throughout the exchanges we had been having. Waiting to strike, like a cobra.

He walked over and proceeded to explain his theory to us, not so much as a “hello,” or “how are you?”.

“I don’t think you really are Declan. In fact I know you aren’t, Joshua.”

The next five minutes were astonishing. Derek laid out his detailed theory, based on eleven years of visiting him and half-listening, and that he was posing as Declan to get information for the Project.

Not only was Derek’s theory wrong, it was wrong in every particular way, a way that only a supremely confident and arrogant person can be wrong. In Declan’s notes, this theory he had concocted was three pages long.

I watched as Declan took all this in and paused. He didn’t acknowledge the accusations, he merely asked how he heard it. Derek tapped his nose.

Declan had listened to this man witter on about everything in his life. His constituency. His fantasy football team. His ambitions and dreams for his political future. His contacts at the foreign embassy. Declan had in fact said very little, because he couldn’t get a word in at all.

Derek had spent all his time building up his theory, which wasn’t even the same as the other candidates, and not only was it wrong, it was not even interesting.

“I think you may have misunderstood me,” Declan said eventually. “By the way, how is Francois?”

Derek looked startled. He stumbled over his words in a panic.

“I, I, I, never told you his name!” he said.

“But you did, once, a very long time ago,” Declan replied. “And I don’t know about you, but wouldn’t it be in the public’s interest to know that he’s been receiving sensitive Committee documents for quite some time?”

All of a sudden, Derek needed some air.

Waiters began walking around the room refilling glasses. Sir Herbert had been speaking for about twenty minutes and the assembled audience had been starting to get weary. They perked up when he announced that he had two final things to say.

I looked around at the anticipation. Declan tapped away at his phone.

“I would like to first of all announce the endorsement for my successor as Chair,” he said excitedly.

The audience hushed and Sir Marcus Duncombe stepped forward, beaming.

Phones pinged. People started to mutter. Journalists started leaving the room. Sir Marcus’ own phone pinged and he saw it. An Icarus Web alert - the photo of the text he had sent back to his constituent. He was mortified.

He started shouting and screaming at people telling them to put their phones away. Hysterically he ran out of the room.

“Order, order,” Sir Herbert said from the lectern. It wasn’t loud, but it cut through immediately. The room settled, as if remembering where it was.

The only person who didn’t move was Declan.

“I preferred James Marshall, anyway.”

“And finally, I am sad to announce that at the election next year, I will also be standing down as the Member of Parliament.”

There was an unusual amount of regret in his voice. Something wasn’t right.

“And I very much hope that my Party members, and constituents, will elect my endorsement as my replacement.”

He looked down to his feet.

“Declan.”

The crowd was stunned, and turned around to look at us. After a pause, the applause came and gradually grew as others looked around to see who was clapping.

Eileen, Sue and Derek were dumbstruck. There was a noticeable shift as MPs and staff started to move in different groups. Conversations ended abruptly as people calculated their next alliance.

It took me by surprise. But then again it shouldn’t - he had played everybody.

Everyone walked over to shake him by the hand and congratulated, and I was crowded out. I was pushed further away from him, and I faded away, heading back to the barber shop to get my things. Thankfully he had left the shop unlocked.

Shortly after, he came in too. He was flanked by Sir Herbert.

“Things might change a bit,” Declan said. “But you’re in charge now.”

He handed me a piece of paper. It had two things on it:

admin@icarusweb.net.uk

Password: UtilityBills

As Sir Herbert stood by the door, I asked Declan about the stained glass.

“What do the ‘E’ and ‘H’ stand for?”

“You’re looking at him,” replied Sir Herbert. This shop used to be mine.

I paused. And that’s when the scale of all this dawned on me.

After fifteen years, Declan moved on. And by habit, people kept coming back to the shop to see me, and still kept sharing their secrets.

The Icarus Web kept growing, and three years later, has 420,000 subscribers, which I am secretly quite pleased about.

Because no one remembered the apprentice.