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Signal Failure reveals what it's like to walk the path of HS2

Author Tom Jeffreys trekked from London to Birmingham, and found no easy answers.

Railways, like Romans, prefer to take the direct route. Tom Jeffreys, trekking on foot from London to Birmingham along the putative course of the HS2 high-speed line, is more of a rambler. Of course, his direction always tends north-north-west, but Signal Failure is a book about the verge and the siding, the hinterland, the brownfield, the landscape that makes way, and the noise that crowds the signal.

The HS2 project is scheduled to break ground in earnest in 2018, although “ground clearance” will be underway much sooner. Armed with Compulsory Purchase Orders and a compensation budget of at least £10bn, it will go pretty much where it wants. “A long section of this country is set to be altered irrevocably by HS2,” Jeffreys writes. “This walk and this book are my attempts to get to know it while I still can.”

The idea is to compile a state-of-the-nation snapshot from conversations about the new line, with landowners, farmers, protestors, planners – those whose life or livelihood falls within the HS2 pale. It’s a brave mission statement from a man who is “not a natural conversation-starter” (one of a few points in the book where you have to ask – why in hell are you doing this?), but Jeffreys makes an affable interviewer. Do we learn a great deal about the state of the nation from whether or not Roger and Jenny want a railway embankment running through their village? That’s harder to say.

We’re told that “across the UK, people are tired of being forgotten, of being left off the maps produced in London to be perused in London for decisions made in London”. Well, that’s transport infrastructure for you – it often seems to pit the Little People against the Machine. Frank Norris used a railroad to embody what he called “the octopus” in his 1901 novel of that name; the agriculturist William Cobbett called it “the Thing” – the unstoppable mill of capitalism.

This is a book in the see-it-for-myself tradition: Jeffreys declares that “direct experience is the best teacher”. There’s a good deal of agonising over what other traditions the text might fall into – travel? nature? landscape? sociology? – and this is a richly read book, so I was surprised to find no mention of Cobbett’s Rural Rides (1822-26), another fact-finding ramble across the southern and midland English counties.

Jeffreys shares Cobbett’s galvanising curiosity and irresistible urge to digress, and the two are also alike in fallibility: Jeffreys’s occasional gaucheness, oddly enough, is the making of this book. There’s nothing in Signal Failure as funny as Cobbett’s tragicomic inability to avoid crossing the Hindhead in Hampshire (it’s the way he tells it), but Jeffreys’s attempt at wild camping in the Ealing suburb of Perivale comes close – it’s not so much the slapstick of the wonky tent that gets you as the mounting panic of the would-be wanderer watching his comfort zone disappear over the horizon.

Like many other young men who write about landscape and nature, Jeffreys is often terribly earnest, but he is also honest. He addresses his own shortcomings more or less cheerfully, which presents a refreshing contrast to the offhand omniscience of the textbook lone enraptured male (even if, at times, naivety shades into sloppy fact-checking: Gilbert White, who died in 1793, is described as a “nineteenth-century naturalist” and associated with “lush prose”).

Jeffreys doesn’t hesitate to tackle the wider socio-economic themes that he considers central to the HS2 project. He is passionate and well-informed about urban development and gentrification (though his aesthetic – scruffy good, clean bad; molehills good, lawns bad – sometimes feels a bit shop-bought). When he plunges off the path, the results can be mixed (we learn a lot more about the development of Amersham than might be thought necessary), but he is often winningly self-aware: there’s a wonderful passage about the nature writers who move to London and end up “reading fox-tracks and graffiti tags and calling it psychogeography”.

Will Signal Failure change anyone’s mind on HS2? The drift here is generally anti – the rail line framed as a corporatist adventure – but this isn’t a book that gives us easy answers. What it gives us instead is context and texture; human lives, human communities, living landscapes, on-going social histories. Through it all, Jeffreys’s writing is intelligent, engaging and engaged, and deeply and disarmingly human. 

“A Sweet, Wild Note: What We Hear When the Birds Sing” by Richard Smyth is published by Elliott & Thompson

Signal Failure: London to Birmingham, HS2 on Foot
Tom Jeffreys
Influx Press, 416pp, £9.99

This article first appeared in the 13 July 2017 issue of the New Statesman, The Maybot malfunctions

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At best, The Confession Tapes makes you feel unease. At worst, despair

Netflix billed the show as a true-crime binge-watch – but its narrative arc is the opposite of cathartic.

Would you confess to a crime you hadn’t committed? For some days now, I’ve been asking myself this question. Furious and punchy, my gut tells me immediately that I wouldn’t, not in a million years. But then comes a quieter, less certain voice. Isn’t guilt, for some of us, a near-permanent state? Apt to apologise even when I’m not in the wrong, I cannot believe I’m the only woman alive who tortures herself in the small hours by thinking she has unknowingly done something very bad indeed.

All this was provoked by The Confession Tapes, billed on social media as “our” next Netflix true-crime binge-watch. In this instance, however, the breathless excitement is misplaced: binge-watching would seem to me to amount to a form of self-harm. Yes, it’s compulsive. Stoked by bloody police photographs, the atmosphere can be suspenseful to a queasy-making degree. But like Making a Murderer and The Keepers before it, its prime concern is not with crimes committed so much as with the American justice system, for which reason its narrative arc is the opposite of cathartic.

At best, it will leave you feeling uneasy. At worst, you may find yourself sinking down into something akin to despair.

Director Kelly Loudenberg tells six stories over the course of seven episodes. Each involves a brutal murder (or murders) for which a perpetrator (or perpetrators) has (have) since been safely (unsafely) convicted. All are linked by one factor: the conviction was secured primarily thanks to a confession extracted by the police under extreme circumstances. Lawyers were not present; mind games were played; interviewees were exhausted, unstable, traumatised. In one instance, the authorities took what’s known as the “Mr Big” approach: undercover officers, playing their roles with all the gusto of a local am-dram society, pretended to be gangsters whose criminal networks could save the accused from death row if only they (the accused) would provide them with all the facts.

Why did juries believe these confessions, unaccompanied as they were by forensic evidence? Here, we go back to where we began. “No,” they told themselves. “I would not admit to a crime I had not committed.” Either such citizens have no softer inner voice – or, more likely, the idea of listening to it is simply too terrifying.

Predictably, the majority of the accused are poor and ill-educated, and perhaps this is one reason why the case of Sebastian Burns and Atif Rafay, two articulate middle-class boys from Canada, stood out for me (the pair were found guilty of the 1994 murder in Bellevue, Washington, of Atif’s parents and sister; at the time, they were 19). Or perhaps it is just that I still can’t understand why an American court considered “Mr Big” evidence admissible when the technique is illegal in the US? (The “gangsters” who encouraged Burns and Rafay to indulge in the most pathetic teenage braggadocio I’ve ever witnessed belonged to the Royal Canadian Mounted Police.)

The saddest part of this tale: hearing Burns’ father, David, describe his prison visits. (Burns, serving a life sentence without possibility of parole, has exhausted all his appeals.) The strangest part: the way James Jude Konat, like all the prosecutors in this series, was so happy to perform for the camera, more game-show host than lawyer.

It feels obscene to move on, but move on I must. W1A (18 September, 10pm) is enjoying a bewilderingly long life (this is series three). Is the joke still funny? I think it’s wearing thin, though this may be born of my own recent encounter with the BBC’s bizarre machinery (humiliating, in a word).

Siobhan Sharpe (Jessica Hynes) and her team of media morons have been bought by a Dutch company, Fun, where good ideas are celebrated with silent discos. One idea is a YouTube-style platform, BBC Me. Meanwhile, Ian Fletcher (Hugh Bonneville) is helming – nice BBC word – a group that will deliver the corporation’s “More of Less Initiative”, and a cross-dressing footballer has successfully plonked his bum on the Match of the Day sofa. Business as usual, in other words. 

Rachel Cooke trained as a reporter on The Sunday Times. She is now a writer at The Observer. In the 2006 British Press Awards, she was named Interviewer of the Year.

This article first appeared in the 21 September 2017 issue of the New Statesman, The revenge of the left