Heaven's Door (35 page)

“Yes, no problem. What about you? Are you alright?”

“I'm fine. Tell you what; I'll call you when I get there.”

“Oh, by the way, George phoned. Mum spoke to him but he said he'd like to talk to you as soon as possible.”

“Right. I'll phone him on the way back.”

“Okay. Drive safely. Speak later.”

Tom put timers on the table lamp in the living room and the standard lamp in the dining area, set to switch on at 7.30 pm and off again at 11.00. He looked out onto the avenue to make sure there was no-one around outside yet, then left for Balmaha and relative anonymity in the populous refuge of central London.

*

Week 12; Saturday, 13 June …

Tom dropped the last of the empty envelopes into the waste paper bin next to his chair and looked at the pile of letters and circulars on the table in front of him that he'd filtered out from the mountain of mail he'd been sifting through. He logged off on his laptop before closing it and pushing it away from him. He checked his watch – nearly three o'clock. It had taken him around five hours to catch up, but there again, he reminded himself, he'd been making it spin out for as long as possible just to fill the time.

He put the stack of opened mail into the top drawer of the sideboard and opened a new bottle of Glenfiddich. He poured himself a large one, added a dash of highland spring water from a bottle in the fridge and took his first drink on to the balcony.

*

Week 12; Sunday, 14 June …

Tom was awoken at just after 10.00 am by the sound of the doorbell. He looked round, totally disorientated, his memory not best served by his being in the one room in the apartment that he very rarely entered. The ringing stopped, and he turned over on his side. Then it started again and didn't stop.

He stumbled to the front door of the flat, squinting at the small monitor screen next to it. It showed the person who was pressing the bell outside the main entrance at ground level. Just about the last person he expected to see. He closed his eyes tightly then looked again, as if he might be mistaken. Then he rushed into the en-suite of the master bedroom and looked at himself in the mirror. The image was what he expected – a complete mess. The bell was still ringing. He went back to the door and spoke into the intercom.

“Hi, Grace. What brings you here?”

“Are you okay?”

“Not really, Grace. Late night – well, very early night actually, but lots to drink and …” He hardly recognised his own voice; it was hoarse and squeaky.

“Are you going to let me in?”

“Not sure I want you to see me like this, to be honest.”

“Oh, for goodness' sake! Look, I'll sit quietly and avert my eyes until you're decent – or you've done whatever you need to do to yourself. Come on, Tom, letting yourself go isn't going to help anyone, you know. Think of Katey.”

He paused for a moment.

“Just give me a couple of minutes, then you can come in and wait while I get a shower.”

“Look, can't you just let me in?”

“A couple of minutes.”

He went through to the living room, looking into the bathroom as he passed and recoiling from the stench. He had a hazy recollection of making an emergency visit to throw up during the night and had failed to flush the toilet. The smell turned his stomach. He went in and flushed it, turning his head away, then rifled through the floor cabinet for a de-odorising spray, emptying it into the room and closing the door behind him.

Grace was ringing the bell again.

In the living room he quickly cleared the chairs and sofas of papers, and the tables of glasses and the almost empty whisky bottle, before rushing back to the front door.

“I'll leave this unlocked. Make yourself comfortable; I'll be about ten minutes.”

He activated the lock on the main doors downstairs and fled into the en-suite shower room.

When he joined Grace in the living room, she was sitting, perfectly relaxed, on one of the black leather sofas. She was wearing a loose, very short, patterned dress over black leggings, and sling-back sandals. Her hair was held back from her face by a grey silk buff pulled down in pirate fashion on her head. Her heavy-rimmed week-day glasses had been discarded in favour of contact lenses. She wore very little make-up, and, as always, the overall effect was dazzling.

“Coffee?” he wheezed.

She reached across to the occasional table next to the sofa and held up a mug.

“Been there, done that,” she said, smiling. “But please, be my guest.”

Tom gave a twisted smile in response, not yet feeling totally in command of his limbs and features. He dropped heavily in to one of the armchairs, stretched and yawned.

“Oh, sorry,” he said. “Rough day yesterday.”

“Yes, I heard. Jenny phoned. Told me about the magistrate. Then the Press release, and clearing your office. Actually, that's why I'm here. One of the reasons.”

He looked across at her, blinking his eyes to focus.

“What's why you're here?” he said.

“I'm here to accept your resignation.”

Tom stared at her.

“As I said, that's one reason. The other was to check whether you were okay. Well, as okay as you can be, I suppose.”

“Really,” he said, without expression, his voice back to normal. “I wonder why I find it easier to believe your first reason.”

“Okay,” she said. “Andrew did ask me to see you as soon as possible and persuade you to do what he called ‘the right thing'. I was going to do it next week, but … well, to be honest, Tom, I don't see that you really have a choice given…”

“Why did he send
you
?” Tom snapped. “You're rather a big girl now to be running errands for people, even the mighty Donald.”

Grace looked down at her hands, clasped together on her lap. She spoke sadly.

“He seems to think we have a special relationship. A few weeks ago I would have said he was right.”

Tom was silent and still for a moment, then he got up and went over to the mirror, taking the letter from the frame.

“Here,” he said, handing it to her as she looked up.

“What's this?”

“My resignation. I was going to give it to Andrew tomorrow morning, but now, thankfully, I don't have to see him.”

She took it from him, frowning.

“Are you sure you don't want to take it?”

“Absolutely sure. You'd be doing me a great service.” He sat down on the sofa, a couple of feet away from her. “Like you've always done,” he added, with a sigh.

They looked at each other without speaking for a long time.

“Would you like to talk now about my second reason for coming, and our special relationship? Not that we have one, of course, you couldn't have been clearer about…”

“I'd like to talk about that very much,” he said, softly. “But not now.”

“Why not? I …”

“Because I wouldn't be sure if you weren't just softening the blow, so to speak. Whether you actually meant it. Tell you what – leave now, with what you came for, and come back again – soon. Tomorrow; the next day – to talk about our ‘special relationship' when you don't want anything else. Okay?”

She screwed up her eyes as if trying to read his mind.

“Alright,” she said, “but only if you promise to get some decent coffee.”

“I promise.”

He smiled and walked her to the door. She turned back to him, kissing him lightly on the cheek.

“Until … whenever,” she said.

He closed the door behind her and went back into the living room, noticing for the first time the red message indicator flashing on the house phone. He picked up the handset and followed the menus to his messages. There were six from Katey, four last night, the first at just before ten, and two from earlier that morning.

He checked his mobile – nothing on the display. Of course, there wouldn't be; he had switched it off yesterday morning to avoid unwelcome callers. Katey would certainly have tried that too. He didn't bother to check, knowing how concerned she would be. He phoned her straight away.

“Dad! For Christ's sake, where have you been? I've been worried sick!”

“I'm so sorry, Princess. I fell asleep really early last night. Must have slept through the phone ringing.”

“And this morning?”

“Slept through it again.”

“I tried your mobile.”

“Switched off, I'm afraid. Look I'm really sorry.”

There was silence for a while.

“Well, just as long as you're alright.”

“I am, honestly. How's Mum?”

“Okay, actually. She's done a really good painting. First for ages. Therapeutic, I suppose.”

“And you?”

“I'm okay too.” She paused. “Look, Dad, I have to tell you, I phoned Jenny when I couldn't get hold of you, so she'll be worried as well now. You'd best call and tell her you're okay. And … you're not going to like this – I also got in touch with Amazing Grace this morning after I'd got no answer again. She said something about checking that you were okay – so you'd best call her right away or she'll be turning up at the door. Sorry – I just didn't know what to do.”

Tom laughed.

“That's okay, Katey. Just think of it as pay-back for all the times I've phoned round your friends when I didn't know where you were, and the hard time you always gave me when I did. Now you know what it's like.”

“Yes well don't let it happen again,” she said. “And, another thing, I want you back home here just as soon as possible,” she added, with real feeling.

“Just as soon as possible,” he said. “Better make those calls. I'll phone later. Love to Mum. Bye.”

“Bye, Dad.”

Tom replaced the receiver then checked the message log again for the time of Katey's second call that morning – 9.25 am. Assuming she called Grace immediately after that, then she had got round to see him in about thirty minutes.

He realised he felt very good about that.

*

Week 13; Monday, 15 June…

The aide knocked on the large white door and poked his head inside to announce the arrival of the prime minister's 7.00 am appointment.

The Study in 10 Downing Street is a light and airy room with pale pastel-coloured walls above a dado rail and white wood panelling below it. The large white cabinets around the walls and between the three large windows are packed with books behind glass doors with a metal diamond lattice. Lighting for the room is provided by a number of table and floor lamps and a single ornate gold chandelier with seventeen shaded candle lamps.

At one end of the room is a circular meeting table with eight chairs. At the end closest to the door where Grace entered, Andrew was sitting in one of the four wing chairs positioned round a small rectangular table in polished walnut. Just to the left of the door the portrait of Britain's first woman prime minister looked down on him from above the white marble fireplace.

“Come in, Grace.” He waved her to sit down on the chair next to him.

The PM was as alert and bright as ever, in spite of the hour. His suit was immaculately pressed and his white shirt looked crisp and gleaming. The knot in his old Etonian tie was, as always, perfectly symmetrical. Grace wondered, not for the first time, if he ever slept at all.

“Morning, Andrew. Thank you for seeing me so early, but I was so excited at being the first person to give you a Christmas present.”

She handed him the envelope. Andrew removed the letter, briefly scanned it and tossed it onto the table. He looked at her with penetrating eyes.

“Time to move on, Grace,” he said. “The age of the all-conquering Charismadon is behind us now and we mere mortals must take over. In a few years no one will believe that such a creature ever existed. His legendary arrogance and smarm will be a thing of the past and …”

Grace got up, turned away and walked out of the room.

“Keep talking, Andrew,” she said, over her shoulder. “You might even be able to convince yourself of all that. But a word of advice – don't waste your time trying to persuade anyone else.”

*

“At seven o'clock this morning, I received a letter of resignation from the Home Secretary and Member of Parliament for Princes and Marlburgh, Mr Tom Brown. In his letter, he conveys his regrets at having to take this action but feels that under the circumstances, his position is untenable and that any attempt to pursue his official duties would be an embarrassment to his Party and this government. Mr Brown was charged three days ago, at Guildford Magistrates Court, with materially assisting in the death of a prisoner, his son, Jack Tomlinson-Brown, who was awaiting passage to exile.”

Andrew looked directly into the camera and paused, projecting a feeling of utter dismay for the benefit of the watching millions. Then he looked down again at the sheet of paper on the lectern in front of him and continued.

“I fully understand the reasons for his tendering his resignation – noble reasons, typical of the man – so I have accepted it, albeit with a feeling of great reluctance and a heavy heart. And I should like to take this opportunity to express my personal sadness at the harrowing events which have led to this eventuality and, at the same time, thank Tom Brown for his enormous efforts – and unmitigated success – over his eight years as a Member of Parliament with this Party, including the past two years as Home Secretary. He will go down in British history as one of a very small and select band of politicians who, almost single-handedly, brought about quantum change to our society.

“I am sure I speak for everyone in sending Tom, and his family, our very best wishes for their future, and to him personally, our eternal gratitude.”

Andrew nodded to all parts of the crowd of reporters, then turned and walked back through the door of Number 10, thinking how different the statement was from the words he would have liked to use, and how pleased he was to get it out of the way.