Kompromat

Harriet Marshall was waiting for them at the entrance to the Oxford Union building. She ushered Melissa to her seat in the chamber, while Barnard met the other speakers in the anteroom. Lord Middlebank of Upper Twaddle had already arrived. His flowing fair hair had turned a silvery colour with the years, but he was still strikingly handsome.

‘Hello, Edward.’ Though he proffered his hand there was a frosty edge to his voice. ‘I sincerely hope you lose this debate and lose the vote next week. You are doing great damage to the country.’

‘I’m sure you’ll say so this evening,’ Barnard replied. No point having a fight now, he thought. Fisticuffs could come later.

He moved out of range to study the photos displayed on the wall of the anteroom. Back in the day, he’d been a competent performer at the Oxford Union himself, though he had never made it to President. If he had, he too would be hanging on the wall in a silver frame. So many famous names, he thought, as he moved along the row. Gladstone, Wilberforce, Curzon, Asquith, Hogg, Foot, Heseltine, Bhutto, Johnson – what a galaxy!

The photographs were arranged in chronological order. When he came to the 1990s, he paused to peer more closely. Howard R. Marshall, it said. President, Trinity Term, 1995. How odd, he thought. Howard. R. Marshall could have been Harriet Marshall’s twin, the resemblance was so striking. Did Harriet actually have a twin brother, Howard? If so, why had she never mentioned him?

Sitting next to H.R. Marshall was another man whose face was familiar. Y. Yasonov, he read, Treasurer. Good God! This was really too much! If Harriet had a twin brother, Howard, she had kept very quiet about it. And why had the name ‘Yasonov’ not rung a bell with her? Yasonov had been more than Howard Marshall’s contemporary at Oxford. He had been a close collaborator. They had apparently both served as Officers of the Union at precisely the same time. How bizarre!

When he came back to Britain after that tiger-tagging expedition in Russia’s Far East, Barnard distinctly remembered telling Harriet that he’d had a private dinner in Khabarovsk with President Popov and his key aide, Yuri Yasonov. Popov, as he recalled, had said something about Yasonov having learned his ‘classy’ English at Oxford! Harriet hadn’t picked up on that at all. If Yasonov had been close to her twin brother, surely Harriet would have heard of him, even met him at some May Ball or at a Union debate or whatever.

And then the truth struck him. There was only one possible explanation. Howard. R. Marshall was actually Harriet Marshall! It wasn’t a question of there being twins. Howard had actually changed sex. For some reason, known only to him (or her), Howard had become Harriet!

Barnard was still trying to work it all out when the Union steward struck the gong. The debate was about to begin. The Officers of the Union, led by the current President, Arthur Pemberton, filed into the Chamber, followed by the speakers. The TV cameras began filming. Louisa Hitchcock, star presenter of the BBC nightly news digest, set the stage for millions of views around the world.

‘Tonight we come to you from Oxford,’ she began, ‘from the Oxford Union, one of the world’s most famous debating chambers, modelled on the House of Commons. Eighty-three years ago, the Oxford Union held a vitally important debate, a debate which resonated across the Continent of Europe. The topic then was: Should Britain go to war? The topic today is equally important. Should Britain leave the European Union?’

The cameras panned to the speakers. ‘And what a tremendous line-up of speakers we have,’ Louisa Hitchcock continued. ‘On the Remain side we have Lord Middlebank of Upper Twaddle; as well as Tom Milbourne, the chancellor of the exchequer. On the Leave side, we have Andromeda Ledbury, MP, and Edward Barnard, chairman of the Leave campaign. The vote will be taken at the end of the debate. Ladies and gentlemen, fasten your seat belts!’

Lord Middlebank, opening the debate, was in tremendous form. Before his elevation to the peerage, he had spent years in the House of Commons. At a time when good old-fashioned oratory was going out of fashion, Middlebank bucked the trend.

‘We shouldn’t be having this Referendum at all,’ he thundered. ‘I fail to understand why such a commitment was included in the Conservative manifesto. I can only conclude that the prime minister totally miscalculated. Maybe he assumed that the Conservatives would not win an overall majority in the election and therefore there would be no need to deliver on the manifesto commitment since it would be vetoed by their coalition partners. If that is the case, ladies and gentlemen, then I put it to you, this is cynicism of the highest order!’

Andromeda Ledbury, leading for the Leave side, did her best. With speaking engagements up and down the country, she had grown daily in confidence and stature over the weeks of campaigning. She was graceful. She was witty.