Goodfellowe MP (9 page)

‘Needs must. I’m still in the middle of a war zone and getting shot at from all sides. You’re right, I dislike the idea intensely. But I have Sammy to think of. Anyway,’ he added, attempting to make light of it, ‘I may have to buy myself a new bike.’

‘What happened to Old Beryl?’ Goodfellowe had once complained of how the saddle of his bike constantly bit into him. Lillicrap had promptly named the beast after the other main rectal discomfort in Goodfellowe’s life.

‘Got demolished. Outside Charing Cross police station. It’ll play hell with the crime figures.’

‘Something for which I hope you’ll be apologizing personally to the Home Secretary. But in any event I suppose we’ll have to help. Can’t have you failing to get to the House. Missing any more votes.’

‘Ouch.’

‘Sorry. Chief Whip’s told me to rub it in a little. A lot, actually.’ Lillicrap was juggling the steering wheel
with his knees while opening a bag of Liquorice Allsorts at sixty.

‘Thank him for me.’

‘If you want our help with another consultancy, that practically puts you on the payroll, old chum.’

‘I wouldn’t sell my soul for a palace, Lionel, yet you expect me to sell it for a caravan park?’ Goodfellowe sounded prickly. He declined the proffered Berty Bassett.

‘Look, there’s a way out of all this. Something which would help both you and me, get you back into everyone’s good books. You know we’ve got the new Press Bill coming down from the Lords any day. It’s Heritage Department fodder so I’m the lucky Whip in charge of it. I want you on the Standing Committee. Helping me out.’

‘You mean doing your donkey work.’ Goodfellowe hoped he didn’t sound churlish. Being pushed around, however tactfully, by his former PPS would take a little getting used to. Their relationship had been turned on its head and he had his pride. In any event, slogging away on the Standing Committee, examining the entrails of the Press Bill inch by mucky inch, failed to fill him with any enthusiasm.

‘It’s not likely to be too much work: the Bill’s got to go through by the summer recess. Of course, there are any number of more tedious committees you might be put on if the Chief gets his way.’

Goodfellowe groaned.

‘Come on, Tom. Help me out. And help yourself, too.’

They were on Salisbury Plain and through the
window Stonehenge was beginning to turn to ochreblue shadow in the late afternoon mist. Goodfellowe always found the simple Welsh-hewn megaliths a sight to rouse his spirits, a symbol of hope that pushed the urban clutter and confusion of London far from his mind. Four thousand years ago they’d dragged those huge slabs across hundreds of miles of hostile countryside with nothing but their hands, ordinary men with exceptional dreams who wanted to change their world, to build a monument that would stand and survive as a beacon of hope not only in their dark Neolithic age but in times that were to come. Which presumably was why the faceless men who decide such matters were planning to bury this majestic stretch of the A303 inside a tunnel, pouring the British motorist and his money down a sightless black hole while reserving the inspiration for the exclusive enjoyment of Japanese tourists.

‘Bollocks.’

Lillicrap, still pondering his Standing Committee, took Goodfellowe’s conclusion as acceptance of his request. ‘That’s great. It’ll be fun working together again. Tell you what, I’m going shooting in Scotland again this summer. Glorious Twelfth and all that. Come if you’d like. Do some damage to the grouse and the malt. We could celebrate our hard work together. Slaughter and swill. Bring Sam, too.’

‘I’m not much of a shot, Lionel …’

‘No matter. There’s miles of good fishing or even walking.’

‘Truth is, I think it may be a little beyond me. Even with a new consultancy.’

Lillicrap grinned reassuringly. ‘Don’t worry too much about that. Look, I’ve been shooting on the same estate ever since I got into Parliament. They. owe me a few favours. I can get you a very good deal. Believe me, the money will be no problem.’

‘We’ll see.’ Money was always a problem, but that concern paled into insignificance next to Sammy. She would go ballistic if he announced they’d be spending their summer turning Perthshire into an alfresco abattoir. She would be more likely to arrive with a picket line than a party frock.

Lillicrap popped another handful of liquorice and put his foot down to clear a milk tanker which was struggling along the single carriageway. The Range Rover didn’t even complain, eating up the distance – as well it might at almost fifty pence a mile, courtesy of the Members’ mileage allowance. A hundred pounds travelling to, and a hundred pounds travelling fro, every time Lillicrap visited his constituency. Goodfellowe had known some MPs to travel three and four up with each of them putting in a claim. Pity was they didn’t offer a bike allowance. Maybe he’d suggest one, on health grounds.

It was a few miles beyond Stonehenge that they came across the accident at the roundabout. A B-reg Fiat filled with students on their way to a frolic in Exeter had entered the roundabout too fast and had failed to make the final corner, clipping the kerb and leaping straight into the trunk of an ancient ash. The bonnet was up and crumpled, the misshapen windscreen had evil smears of something dark and dribbling on the inside. Blue steam wafted from the
engine compartment. Two of the doors had been forced open by the impact and from one a young man was trying to crawl, dragging himself by a single arm, the other lying awkward and useless by his side. Already three drivers had found excuses to pass the scene, slowing only to spy. The driver of a veal lorry approaching from the other direction had shown more concern and had slowed but was in difficulties finding a safe place to park.

Goodfellowe indicated the grass verge, scarred and chewed by the Fiat’s desperate tyre tracks, and Lillicrap gently eased the Range Rover over the kerb, flicking on his hazard lights as he did so. ‘Call the rescue services,’ Goodfellowe instructed, leaping out.

The smashed car had four occupants. One was sitting on the verge, head buried in his hands, another two lay unconscious in the front seat while the fourth was still trying to claw his way from the back, his only good hand reaching out imploringly as he saw Goodfellowe approach. Steam – or was it smoke? – continued to pour from the engine. The ignition was still on, whining, sparking electric blue and yellow in warning. Something acrid burnt in the back of Goodfellowe’s throat as he approached. He reached across and had to battle with the twisted key stuck in the ignition before the system fell silent. He had also succeeded in smearing blood from the collapsed steering wheel across the sleeve of his jacket. Beside him, the driver appeared to be in a bad way, his facial injuries weeping horribly. Better not touch him, best to wait until the emergency services arrived. The
driver of the cattle truck was wrenching at the far door, trying to get to the other front-seat passenger, who was beginning to stir. Goodfellowe turned his attention to the pleas from the back. The student’s right collar bone and probably his arm were fractured. He had dragged himself halfway out of the door but could go no further, every effort twisting his face with pain. He raised pleading eyes to Goodfellowe.

‘Help me.’

Goodfellowe dropped to his knees to give him some support and as soon as he had reached around the student’s chest the boy seemed to give way, falling into his protector’s arms. Slowly, with considerable difficulty, Goodfellowe eased him out of the car and onto the grass.

‘They’re coming!’ Lillicrap called from the Range Rover. He threw across a car rug.

The boy was shivering, his teeth chattering with shock, yet a sudden energy seemed to take hold of him. With his good hand he clutched urgently at Goodfellowe, drawing him closer. ‘Are you p-p-police?’ he whispered, stammering. There was blood in his eye, Goodfellowe wiped it away with the boy’s own ripped shirt-sleeve.

‘No. They’re on their way.’ He meant it to sound reassuring but the boy seemed only to grow more agitated.

‘Please. A favour. In my shirt pocket.’ His crooked arm tried to inch towards the pocket, but the pain made him seize. ‘Please.’ He was sobbing.

Goodfellowe’s fingers probed inside the pocket and
emerged clutching a small plastic bag of what looked a little like green tobacco.

‘Grass. Only enough for a couple of smokes. Bin it for me? Before the police get here?’

Goodfellowe hesitated.

‘If they find it on me … Please.’

The student made another desperate attempt to reach the bag himself but the pain was too much. He sank back, teeth cracking, a look of despair glazing over his bloodied eyes.

Goodfellowe held the drug in the palm of his hand. He had grown old with the ethical certainties which were regularly laid out for inspection at Westminster, but there was another world outside the palace precincts where the moral insights of politicians had a habit of vaporizing on contact with reality. So the drug was illegal. But it was soft. The boy, knowing it was illegal, had taken the risk. Just like Jya-Yu. And like Jya-Yu, he had lost. Punishment was due, but wasn’t this accident punishment enough? Yet for Goodfellowe to conceal the drug would also be wrong. And yet, and yet … the boy was only Sammy’s age.

Hell, before he’d become one of the country’s great moral authorities Goodfellowe had tried the stuff himself. At university. A Sixties’ child, like all the rest. He shoved the bag in his pocket.

It was at this point that Goodfellowe looked around to see if anyone had spotted the exchange. He noticed Lillicrap still standing well back under the protective cover of the Range Rover. ‘Give me a hand,’ Goodfellowe asked, trying to shift the lad. Lillicrap ventured
over with reluctance, stepping toe-first through the churned grass as though practising ballet steps.

‘Better wait for the emergency services, perhaps.’ He sounded distracted. ‘I’ll get my fire extinguisher, just in case,’ he offered, and made to return to the Range Rover.

‘Come on, Lionel, just help me make him a little more comfortable.’

The image of the self-assured Whip was beginning to slip. ‘Look, Tom, perhaps it’s better if we left this to others. We’ve no medical experience. Might do more harm than good.’ He lowered his voice, looking at Goodfellowe’s soiled hands. ‘Have you thought of AIDS?’

‘Bugger AIDS. These boys need help.’

‘And it’s coming.’ Already they could hear the sirens in the distance, trying to force passage through the tangle of traffic which had spread in every direction. ‘We’ve both got engagements to get to – and look at the state of your trousers.’

For the first time Goodfellowe became aware that he was kneeling in mud. ‘I’m staying until the ambulance gets here.’

It was a good ten minutes before the rescue services arrived and the student had agreed to let go of his hand. As Goodfellowe wiped his own damp brow and straightened up he realized Lillicrap was right. He looked a mess and felt worse. He needed something absurd to lift his spirits.

He found it at the edge of the roundabout. Lillicrap, now in his shirtsleeves and clutching his stained car rug like a battle trophy, had completely lost his
coyness and was giving an animated interview to a passing local television crew. Goodfellowe laughed until the tears poured down his cheeks.

Much later, when the laughter had been forgotten and they had struggled for more than two hours to fight their way through the ensuing jams, Goodfellowe arrived long after time for his constituency function – to be met by Miss Hailstone. She was always an extraordinary sight. Her lips gave the impression of being cut from cheap wellingtons. They were the colour of bright red plastic and squeaked absurdly as they moved. Her hair had grown prematurely orange and was swept back in a style that defied both gravity and fashion, and which, combined with an extravagant bust, created the impression of a man o’ war casting around in search of fresh winds. She was under full sail as she headed directly for Goodfellowe.

‘Mr Goodfellowe …’ – she was always excessively formal when firing salvoes – ‘I thought I’d made it sufficiently clear how important this evening was so that even you couldn’t misunderstand. Don’t you want to get re-elected? You really might have made the effort. Some of our most important supporters have already left and – good grief, man. Just look at you!’

For a moment she stood speechless, taking in his appearance. His suit resembled something housewives find on Monday mornings buried at the bottom of the laundry basket.

Goodfellowe smiled wryly. ‘Evening, Beryl. How’s the HRT?’

Corsa threw another log on the fire. It didn’t spit. Swiss hearths weren’t allowed to misbehave. In any event, it was only for effect; the late afternoon sun hovered so full and red that even high in the mountains above Gryon they could still enjoy drinks outside on the balcony.

They had all come. Some had flown in via Geneva, others through Lausanne. The skiing season was about to finish yet there had been a foot of fresh snow which lent a crystalline quality to the air, making the drive around the tip of Lac Léman and into the mountains of Valais nothing less than spectacular. Corsa had chosen a provident spot for his Swiss hideaway. The attractions of the breathtaking panorama across the Rhone Valley to the mountains of France beyond were exceeded only by its status as a tax-free headquarters for the international operations of the Granite Foundation. It seemed little more than pedantry to point out that no employee of the Foundation had ever set foot inside.