A Parliamentary Affair (6 page)

Eventually it was time for the wind-up speeches. Etiquette demanded that all backbench speakers should attend, as the minister’s office would have dug out answers to points made. Andrew regretfully made his apologies. He hurried through the Terrace door, turned right and headed up the stairs to take his place in the Chamber. As he got his breath back he glanced up at the gallery, where Tessa and Barney and Grandfather had sat. It had been a long day, a day of huge responsibility, and he was weary.

To his surprise Miranda Jamieson was settling in the front row of the gallery, accompanied by Freddie Ferriman, still pink-faced. Her legs were jammed up against the railing, making modesty difficult. Andrew also observed with a sharp intake of breath that she was paying her new companion no attention. Instead she leaned dangerously over the balcony, looked down and around. Then she caught Andrew’s eye. To the amused nudges of his neighbour, she smiled at him, and gave a little wave of encouragement.

Getting up in the morning was never easy. Elaine envied people who so loved their work that as each day dawned they leapt from bed, showering and pulling on clothes, all in an excited frenzy. Not that many people of her acquaintance, friends or constituents, fitted that description.

Getting out of bed on a Sunday was a different and more pleasurable business. Mike was home and could be heard singing in the bath to the accompaniment of Classic FM. ‘Nessun dorma’ did sound better from the vocal chords of Pavarotti, but Mike was making contented noises, which made her smile affectionately. She carried a tray back to bed and began sucking an orange, stretching her limbs in unaccustomed luxury.

Mike came into the bedroom, dressed in a voluminous towelling dressing gown. Elaine was engrossed, and muttering to herself.

‘What are you reading?’

‘Mmm? Oh, an infuriating article which says that out of the hundred top jobs in Britain ninety-six are held by men. We are making progress, however. Twenty years ago it was ninety-eight. Funny country we live in.’

Mike was puzzled. Having achieved his life’s ambition to be an international pilot he was at a loss when faced with the proposition that someone else, equally well qualified, might be turned down on irrational grounds. The best people got where they wanted if they were determined enough. Promotion should always be on merit and nothing else. Those who missed out were simply not capable or gave up too soon. The fact that so many were women, or black, or north-country, was irrelevant.

‘If it bothers you, I should read something else,’ he suggested mildly, and headed back into the bathroom.

Elaine read bits out as Mike dressed. He should be keen to understand what annoyed her: she was, after all, his wife. She was aware that he was only half listening.

It was enough, Mike decided, to make appropriate noises. He brushed his hair in front of the mirror, fretting a little at the hairs which remained on the brush. With Elaine in this mood, golf and male companionship seemed very attractive. ‘What’s that?’ Mike was being polite. ‘What are you doing today, Elaine?’

His wife glanced up, a murderous glint in her eye. ‘Me? Oh, I think I’ll read a few more articles like this, and then maybe I’ll just lie here and grind my teeth.’

Her husband was at the bedroom door, looking uncertain. ‘Whatever you say, Elaine. Er … what time is lunch?’

‘That’s a wrap, Secretary of State. Well done, if I may say so.’

Martin Chadwick unrolled his lanky frame, rose from the conference table and focused through the windows at the remains of the afternoon sunlight. The flight home should be easy and comfortable. Satisfied, he shuffled the minister’s confidential papers first into a large, red folder then carefully into a battered black leather briefcase and turned the key. The royal seal and ‘EUR’ in specks of gold were still just visible on the outside. The briefcase had been his father’s: Sir Matthew Chadwick, CB, KCMG and a few more handles besides, recently retired Permanent Secretary at the Home Office, now serving on thirteen boards in the city and loving his well-pensioned freedom, while cherishing the thought that the brightest of his four children was climbing the same ladder, and faster.

‘You mean we’ve finished. And not before time,’ Boswood grunted. He made no effort to collect his own papers; security of sensitive documents could safely be left to Martin. He was tired after a grinding session. It irritated him that his private secretary so liked to show an awareness of the world outside the Civil Service as to use slang which made his superiors wince; that was the intention. In assessments an old hand would say, ‘Chadwick? Isn’t he rather … ah … slick? Wears wild ties? Is he quite ready, do you think?’ Another, showing delicate discernment, in the same club as his father, would always add, offhandedly, that the chap’s work was what mattered, and that was rather good. ‘Just the type we’re looking for, in fact.’

Chadwick coughed discreetly. ‘Do you have any plans now, Secretary of State? Can I order you a car, perhaps?’

Boswood glanced at the ornate gilded clock, although he had been watching it with growing impatience for the last hour. Six o’clock was late to finish a meeting which had started at nine and crashed on with only a hurried lunch.

Still, it had been a successful day. Agreement had been obtained with no concessions from the British. The French were looking gloomy; there would be trouble back at the Elysée palace. The elegant, sandy-haired Dutch chairman was walking round the table chatting and shaking hands, looking relieved. One more feather in the cap of the Dutch government. 

Boswood pulled himself out of his chair and shook himself to loosen stiff muscles. ‘Thank you, Martin, but I have some plans for this evening. Can’t let an opportunity of a few hours in Amsterdam go by. Got some friends here, so I shall be seeing them for dinner later. I can get a taxi – actually I’d rather: I can look after myself occasionally, you know.’

From the normally excessively courteous Boswood this was a curt dismissal. Martin looked anxious. It was not good practice for him to go straight back to London on the 8 p.m. plane, leaving his Secretary of State behind and alone. The Dutch secret service had been alerted but had simply shrugged; there was no terrorist activity in the area and their Ministers did not endlessly demand protection. Boswood was being difficult. Everyone on the British team, with the exception of the multilingual Forster who would stay to check texts and translations, was booked on the same flight home. Then last night, just as they settled down for a briefing session with the Ambassador, the Secretary of State had announced airily that he had decided to stay another night, and had changed the flight – himself! – to lunchtime the following day. Bloody nuisance.

Boswood smiled to himself. The Civil Service did not like to let anyone out of the cage, not for a moment, and certainly not for eighteen hours in a foreign city. Fortunately the Ambassador had not pressed him to dine. The feeling of unaccustomed revolt speeded his pulse. Tonight would be a good night.

Outside the conference hall he nodded briefly to Martin and noted with secret glee the ministerial boxes the man was now stuffing with an aggrieved air into the boot of the official car. He slung his hands in his pockets like a naughty schoolboy and strode off whistling in the direction of the Golden Tulip hotel. Chadwick climbed in the car and watched out of the back window. Satisfied but still uncomfortable, he turned to the driver: ‘Airport, please. Quickly.’

As soon as the line of cars snaked away, Boswood changed direction. The clean, fresh air of an Amsterdam evening ruffled his hair as he walked steadily along cobbled streets by the canal. First to a cash dispenser to get more money. The official allowance of £115 per day handed over on the plane by the ever-efficient Martin would not be sufficient for his purposes.

Then the porn shop. Just to look: one of these days he would go in, but for the moment he sated both curiosity and need by gazing into the shop window. You could not do this at home, just stop nonchalantly and stare at such a display. Photographs of women variously attired, sporting whips and handcuffs with a bored air; a life-size female model in scant lace underwear, bra pushing up and exposing the breasts, a large hole in the crotch; book titles, texts laid open for inspection like the girls on the wall – all drew the eye. In the centre of the window stood an enormous plastic phallus, all of three foot in height, erect and livid. At the tip some wit had drawn roguish piggy eyes and a grinning mouth with tongue hanging out and dripping. Boswood snorted, then a bystander might have heard him chuckle.

He glanced at himself in the window, smoothing his hair and straightening his tie. Not bad for fifty-eight really. Bit of a paunch, but better for not having had a huge lunch today. He should have no trouble finding what he wanted. Some people preferred a man who looked distinguished, who didn’t try to be mutton dressed as lamb: just mutton, and plenty of it.

He turned into Regulierstraat in the heart of the old city. At this time of day it was quiet, with a few office workers scurrying for home. From outside, the small pink-painted café did not look anything special – just a large plate-glass window with a short handwritten menu. Two casually dressed young men, moustached with designer stubble, lounged against the wall by the doorway, gesticulating and laughing over a private joke. At the approach of a smartly dressed middle-aged man their conversation halted. Boswood ignored them. As he came close they shrugged, and bid goodbye to each other with a bear hug and a clearly audible kiss.

Nigel smiled to himself. In England, men showing affection in public could find themselves arrested and charged with gross indecency. In Holland it was nobody’s business but their own.

He walked in and ordered a coffee and a sandwich. The café was tiny and buzzing. White wicker chairs and small metal tables were crowded on the ground floor and a minute mezzanine, so close that customers not only had to share but even back to back were touching and getting in each other’s way. But then that was the whole idea. Only the thin young man serving was completely disinterested, manoeuvring unconcerned and unnoticed between customers. British offhandedness was not possible; as Nigel found a corner seat away from the door he nodded amicably to three men already seated at the same table and gazed around with a heady mixture of total freedom and anticipation.

For the purpose of the pink café in Regulierstraat was unmistakable, once one had noticed the pictures on the walls. If the sex shop had exhibited the naked bodies of sleazy women in faded colour, a sight he could ignore, these black-and-white photographs were a different matter. All were of men in sadomasochistic poses. All were young and muscular, their oiled flesh curved and gleaming in the camera’s gaze. Chains, whips and ropes sliced into buttocks, pressed tight across rippling pectorals, snaked up arms and hauled fists high over heads, so that torsos strained upwards to bursting point. One model in the nearest picture was Surinamese, black and brooding, with fleshy lips and Rastafarian dreadlocks and an angry look. Every single photograph concentrated on a long, fully erect penis, bound and cruelly restricted by metal and leather thongs, waiting to be let loose from its bonds. It would have been bad form to stare at the pictures, as he had the first time. Still the tortured bodies cried out to him and he caught his breath: being here, not as a gawping tourist but as a customer, represented a crossing of some kind of Rubicon, a declaration of intent for the next few hours.

His neighbours were having a lively political argument in German. One was small, blond and young. The two older men were dark-haired, one Turkish in appearance; his German was simple enough for Nigel to understand most of what he was saying. Yes, Germany kept open borders for refugees and asylum seekers and that was good. Germany also tried to discriminate against ‘economic migrants’ like himself, but the country gained enormously from guest-workers and should grant them rights and protection under the law. The other man teased, pointing out that the law worked both ways: Kemal would have to register, pay his taxes and obey the law himself. That would restrict his activities somewhat.

Nigel ordered another coffee and sat quietly. It made a delightful change to be an observer instead of constantly the one under observation. It was a joy just to sit in this strange, dangerous café and listen to people arguing amicably,
not
seeking his opinion,
not
deferring to his experience or elevated position,
not
expecting him to take responsibility for all their complaints and woes.
The young blond man had said nothing for several minutes. Boswood became aware that he was being examined in a pleasant, inoffensive manner. He smiled encouragingly. The boy had blue eyes – very Aryan.

‘Sind Sie deutsch?’
the boy asked.

‘No, no, English, sorry.’

‘Oh, that’s wonderful. Don’t be sorry! It’s so British to apologise, isn’t it? I thought you might be. So am I. My name’s Peter.’

Contact had been made. The boy had a reassuring Home Counties accent. He looked about twenty. His jeans were close-fitting, his shirt white, clean, the cotton sweater on top dark blue and emblazoned with the arms of the University of Utrecht, its pushed-up sleeves revealing slim, tanned forearms.

‘I’m … er … Stephen,’ Boswood said. He put both hands clasped on the table in an unconsciously supplicatory pose. ‘I’m just here on business. Got the night off – don’t have to go back till tomorrow. Grand feeling.’

‘Been to Amsterdam before?’

‘Oh yes, over the years, several times.’ That would tell Peter all he needed to know. There would be no misunderstandings.

‘Then you may know it better than I do!’ The young man laughed. His teeth were white, slightly uneven. ‘Have you been to that new place down the street? It’s called EXIT. Bars, music, quiet areas too – if you like. The food’s not bad either. How about it?’

There were lots of bars. In this area most were in converted warehouses. Proprietors would pay commission to good-looking young people like Peter to encourage custom; it would be better to take a look himself first.