Bertie and the Kinky Politician (33 page)

‘Timbrill,' whispered Hugo, eyes widened with dismay.

‘Bingo! The one I had cause to stab in the House – just in time to save your skin, if I recall correctly. The one who, of all my beloved cabinet, should have figured most prominently in your files but who, through your catastrophically inexcusable ineptness, totally slipped through the net. Now Timbrill has been outed to the world's media as some kind of jolly, leather-sniffing pervert by that blasted parrot and guess what – he's about to become the hero of the hour. Can you explain that to me?'

‘A hero? But how?'

‘Because Timbrill's planning to cheerfully admit to his sordid predilections. And do you know what – all my instincts tell me the public are going to love him! He's going to emerge from this shambles as a paragon of honesty. Some kind of kinky knight in shining leather armour with a striped arse and sackfuls of goodwill. You mark my words, even as I face political annihilation, Timbrill will be universally lauded for being the only minister in living memory who has the courage to stand up and tell the absolute truth.

‘Don't you see, Hugo, contrary to the strictest Westminster code, he's now prepared to answer any question truthfully and that cannot, under any circumstances, be allowed!'

Hugo's eyes wandered aimlessly around the room as if his mind had lost the capacity to focus. ‘Has he indicated how he will vote?'

‘Not yet. He's still in Gloucester and will make his decision once he's listened to his constituents. Listened to his constituents!' ranted the PM, red-faced and shaking his fists in snarling fury. ‘Whenever has a politician ever listened to his constituents? Apparently, they like him down there in the sticks. He's promised to listen to their views and will vote in accordance with their wishes. He's calling it true democracy, the seditious little bastard. Bloody Gloucester – I'll not have those slack-jawed, turnip-munching yokels deciding whether my Government stands or falls!'

‘Then we still have time,' blurted Hugo, suddenly animated. ‘Arrange an accident. Kidnap him and tie him up – at least he'd like that. Offer him –'

‘We?
We
, Hugo? Don't you think you're making an assumption here?'

‘I don't understand, Prime Minister.'

‘Then let me explain. You're fired, Hugo. JSON no longer exists and so I've no need of your services any more. I've only been keeping you on these last few months through a sense of gratitude for services rendered. You'll get a full pension, of course – so long as you keep your mouth shut!' There was no bonhomie there, no cosy Assam with custard creams. ‘Your security clearances have been withdrawn. Your files, or at least those surviving your last purge, will be shredded. If anyone snoops, there'll be nothing left. Call it the final act of a grateful employer.'

‘Grateful!' gasped Hugo, obviously struggling.

‘Yes. I'm doing this to keep you out of prison. You've been a very loyal and valuable person to me, but I have to ensure no evidence remains that might inconveniently surface at any enquiry. Plausible deniability, Hugo, plausible deniability.' The PM slumped back in his seat. What he'd planned for so long to be a moment of supreme victory had, in fact, actually turned out to be utterly dispiriting. Sacking Hugo should have left him elated – it certainly would have before that parrot uttered its devastating news – but now there was no pleasure in it; the damned bird had even spoiled his much-anticipated moment of triumph. He did not look at Hugo as he turned his pen over and over, tapping each end lightly on the table. Hugo stood and loitered for a moment, as if waiting for a last-minute reprieve, but none came. The PM spoke only once after that, but it wasn't really what Hugo wanted to hear.

‘Close the door behind you on the way out, there's a good chap.'

They tracked James down to his home in Prior's Norton just a few miles north of Gloucester. The black-and-white thatched cottage snuggled next to the ancient Norman church and was surrounded by its own grounds. At the front, across a hedge-lined lane, were fine views eastwards over Cheltenham and the beech-fringed hills of the Cotswolds beyond, while at the rear the land dropped away west over the fertile Severn Vale to the rumbustious peaks of the Malverns.

It was a lovely location and James found nothing more healing for body and soul than to bumble about cutting the grass with his sit-on mower and harvesting the fruit every autumn, distributing bags bulging with apples, plums and damsons to his friends in Parliament. He tidied up as best he could but Westminster called and in his absence the cottage was cared for by Mrs Glynis Badham, wisdom-endowed, frizzy-haired housekeeper extraordinaire, and Gavin the gardener, soft-spoken, amiable, and callous-handed, who helped maintain the garden while running the farm next door with impressive inefficiency. Both were locally born, both had rarely ventured beyond the county boundaries, both regarded Cirencester as a bit too exciting, let alone London, and both were as honest, sane, grounded, and utterly normal as was possible.

The village had always been a haven of peace and tranquillity, but now all that had changed. The media circus had arrived at some unearthly hour in the morning, their vans clogging the single-track lane past his home. Intricate telescopic masts poked up above the hedges and trees, bristling with antennae. Squat, saucer-like radio dishes pointed at far-away satellites. It looked like GCHQ was having a yard sale. The multi-talented Mrs Badham brewed tea and provided chocolate chip cookies, this masterful strategy putting the reporters in good humour.

James stood on his doorstep and surveyed the encircling ring of cameras. ‘Gentlemen, I'm going to make a statement,' he said, ‘after which I will answer any questions.' In that trivial way which occasionally comes upon one about to say something really important, he noticed the feet of the camera tripods were digging holes in his lawn.

‘I'd like to make something very clear with regard to the events of the last few days. I, too, saw that extraordinary news report from Miss Gordon's house yesterday. Like yourselves, I was completely dumbfounded by Bertie's unexpected allegations, and so, in front of you all, I wish to categorically state –'

James peered at the ranks of hacks and cameras and saw the look of cynical expectation on their faces. They knew what was coming; another futile denial by yet another sleazy politician, one so keen to hang on to his pathetic career he'd go against the word of Bertie, who, after the dramas of the trial, now stood in the public eye as a champion of truth and justice. Perhaps he'd claim Bertie was lying, that he was confusing James with someone else, or that the bird was simply mad.

James couldn't do that.

‘Yes, I wish to state as emphatically as I can that everything you've heard from Bertie is, without exception – the complete truth!'

There was yet another moment of shock. The previous few days had been a purple patch for shocks. There'd been a bit of dearth until Bertie had got stuck in, then they'd all come along together, one after the other. Like buses! Pencils skidded to a halt once more, jaws dropped – again. There was a collective gasp of breath and, for a few seconds, nobody said anything.

James continued. ‘There are some things you need to know about Bertie. I've known him for a number of years and I can tell you he is quite simply extraordinary. He possesses dignity and intelligence, he loves his mother, and is willing to spill blood to protect her from harm. To me, Bertie epitomises everything we humans admire. He is faithful, courageous, loving and honourable, possesses no guile or deceit, and he never lies, so when he revealed the nature of my – erm, interests, I can assure you he was telling the absolute truth and I'm very relieved it's now no longer a secret.

‘Some of you look astonished and all of you look sceptical, but both Bertie and I share a common quality. Neither of us lies, so you are all now in the unique position of facing an honest politician who will answer any question truthfully and without prevarication!'

‘Well that makes a refreshing change,' exclaimed Reuters with evident disbelief, obviously also speaking for his colleagues. ‘How will you be voting in the House this afternoon?'

‘I will be consulting my constituents and my decision will reflect their wishes. These are the people I represent and they will no longer be ignored. I'm holding a meeting in Gloucester within the hour to counsel opinion.'

‘Are you under pressure from No. 10?'

‘Yes. With such a small majority every vote is of paramount importance. Some of our own MPs are unable to attend, reducing our majority further. It will be extremely close. Extremely. Every MP, whether in Government or Opposition, will be subject to intense pressure, and those MPs who remain uncertain can certainly benefit from the situation.'

‘Have you been offered a deal?' asked Channel 4 immediately.

‘Yes.'

‘What's the deal?' There was no subtlety to the questioning.

‘I've been offered the post of Home Secretary,' replied James with honest simplicity. He was breaking a major political taboo here – in all probability the current incumbent had no idea his job had been offered to someone else, but James just wasn't interested, even though the post was one of the highest in the land.

‘Will you take it?'

‘No. To accept means an obligation to support the Government in the vote. That may be contrary to the wishes of my constituents. Although this will be a three-line whip, I will vote in accordance with the will of the people of Gloucester. If they feel this Government is not worth supporting then so be it.'

‘Mr Timbrill, the Prime Minister is on the phone again,' called Mrs Badham from the kitchen window. ‘He wants you to stop talking to the press immediately.' There was no subtlety to Glynis. She was a Pledge and duster woman through and through. ‘I can see you're busy so I'll tell him you'll call back later.'

‘Thank you, Mrs B,' replied James. The hacks grinned. Not often did a conversation of such importance take place between a cleaner and a prime minister. On the whole, it appeared Mrs Badham had displayed a masterful upper hand.

An hour later, James stood on a bench in Kings Square and looked around sadly. The heart of Gloucester had been a dismal place for many years, a gum-spotted expanse of windswept disappointment surrounded by unloved buildings and drenched in grubby mediocrity. The place just cried out for more trees, for grass and flowers, a place for kids to play, shoppers to meet, tourists to sit and inebriates to lie down after their lunchtime excesses. However, rumours of redevelopment were now rife. Things were about to change. James sincerely hoped the plans included lots of trees.

A sizeable crowd was gathering. Word had got around. People stood in knots and groups, some holding shopping bags, others with hands in pockets, grinning. Small children pointed, jumping up and down in excitement beside their parents. At the back, a gang of hooded teenagers circled the indistinct fringes of the crowd on their mountain bikes like mechanised urban vultures. More people drifted into the square, attracted by the sight of camera crews and their equipment.

Flanked only by Mrs Badham, who'd asked for a lift into town to do some shopping at Iceland, James lifted up the megaphone. ‘Hello, everyone,' he said, somewhat startled by his amplified voice. ‘Glad to see you all. My name is –'

‘Percy the Pervert!' yelled one of the hoodies mischievously. Everyone laughed, including James.

‘Yes, well, I'm James Timbrill, one of the two MPs representing your city.'

‘Where's the other one?' called a man. The citizens of Gloucester were noted for their heckling. They liked to get stuck in straight away. Audience participation.

‘He's in London busily ignoring the wishes of his constituents,' said James cheerfully. Gloucester was in the curious position of having half the city inclined to the left, the other half to the right. ‘As you may be aware, a vote of confidence is to take place this afternoon in the House of Commons and before that vote I would like to know how you, the people I represent, feel about the situation. This vote is of vital importance to the Government. If it is lost, the Prime Minister will be forced to dissolve Parliament and call a general election.'

‘No bloody loss there,' quipped an elderly man, sipping coffee from a Styrofoam cup.

James continued. ‘As Secretary of State for Defence, I would normally vote with the Government. It would be seen as an unforgivable betrayal not to do so, but events over the last few months have eroded my faith in the honesty of this administration.'

‘How's the leg?' This shout came from the middle of the considerable crowd now ranged across the square. James reckoned there were several thousand people listening, all regarding him with no small degree of curiosity. A distant policeman surveyed the crowd and radioed for back-up just in case things got lively, despite the well-known fact that the people of Gloucester were spectacularly apathetic in their rioting zeal. They preferred instead to express their displeasure with a ‘Tch!' and slightly aggressive arching of an eyebrow, which placed them right up there at the radical cutting edge of British political extremism.

James could sense there was no hostility here, just a growing interest. An assumption he was about to make a party political broadcast was not being fulfilled. Here was something much more intriguing. Always up for a nose, passers-by paused in their passing, swelling the sea of faces.

‘No, I haven't forgotten I was assaulted by the PM. I have no real love for this present administration and its dubious methods. Like yourselves, I believe the burglary at Miss Gordon's was sanctioned by someone high up in Whitehall, so I'm left with a dilemma. The Government whips have exerted colossal pressure on me in a way I have, frankly, found most unpleasant. Offers have been made and bargains proposed, but in all this there has been no regard whatsoever for you, the people whom I have tried to represent with honesty and integrity for the last seven years.