This Honourable House (23 page)

‘Ah. I see. I’m not sure. I’ll cast around and let you know. Is there anything else?’

The Chancellor sat back and put the tips of his fingers together. ‘There is,’ he said solemnly. A pause ensued as Melvyn tried to guess what was in his master’s mind. He settled on a bland expression. Then Andrew leaned forward and locked his gaze on Melvyn’s face, until the pudgy young press aide began to squirm. ‘Have you been spinning against any colleagues in the government, Melvyn?’

‘What? Me? No. Not at all. Not my style.’

‘Oh, I think it is. We had a discussion about this over dinner last night. Too many unpleasant comments are appearing in the tabloids, and in the gossip columns. Some obviously from internal sources. One or two had your fingerprints on them.’

‘Such as?’ Melvyn challenged fiercely.

‘Well, the
Globe
is not the friendliest of rags. Nor overly scrupulous, despite being forced to apologise to Diane Clark. But I keep seeing feeble bits of malice in there that run her down, that imply she is less than competent. That she is more interested in her love life, for example, than in doing her
job properly. That she has defied the PM on more than one occasion including his efforts to make government policy more family friendly That she is a loose cannon, and not to be trusted.’ He raised an inquiring eyebrow.

‘But those are exactly your views,’ Melvyn protested.

‘Are they, indeed? It doesn’t follow that I want them divulged, especially not by you. Not least because it is a matter of public record who you work for, so it will be assumed it comes from me.’

‘But it does!’ Melvyn exclaimed.

‘Which I would deny. Diane is a splendid woman whom we all adore and admire. Honest, outspoken, innovative, brave. The fact that she’d do better if she kept her trap shut and her legs crossed is neither here nor there. And not to be broadcast, either as my views or yours. Do I make myself plain?’

Melvyn was gasping, his mouth opening and closing like a fish’s. Yet he wondered fleetingly if that twitch around Andrew’s mouth was a smirk or a smile. How seriously was he supposed to take the ticking-off? Was it, perhaps, an oblique briefing session – the opposite of what it appeared to be? His mind racing, Melvyn tried to work out the nuances. Maybe Andrew had twigged that he kept a diary. Maybe Andrew kept a diary. An interlocution of this kind, recorded verbatim, might be designed to cover his back. Andrew’s, that was, not his own.

‘One more thing. The reason the fingers are pointed at you, Melvyn, as far as the
Globe
is concerned, is that your own name seems to surface remarkably frequently, and in complimentary terms. On the Titbits page and the Insider column. Four times last week, I understand. If I had a suspicious mind, I would wonder if you weren’t a mite too pally with somebody on the paper. One of its reporters, a pretty girl, perhaps, who feeds you pasta and Chianti in her flat and wheedles from you opinions you should be keeping to yourself.’

‘I wish,’ Melvyn muttered. He gave a deep sigh. ‘Okay, message received and understood. I shall be more circumspect. The silence of the grave it is. But it isn’t me who’s spinning against Diane, or any of the others. To coin a phrase, the press don’t give them their bad reputations, they do it all by themselves.’

As the Chancellor glared humourlessly, Melvyn backed out of the room, still gabbling: ‘And that, Andrew, explains why everyone thinks so highly of you. But if you’ll listen to a word of advice, you’ll take Fiona to that do.’

He dodged the book that was thrown at him and scurried out, but not before he thought he heard the sound of muffled laughter, as Andrew turned away.

Inspector Stevens pulled off his leather gloves and rubbed his eyes with the knuckles of one hand. Then he picked his way slowly round the room, stepping cautiously over broken picture frames, vases, coats, cosmetics, the stuffing of cushions. There was a sickly smell, which he suspected was urine. The walls had been daubed with paint and crayons. A mirror hung crazily lopsided. Dolls were strewn over the mess, many missing limbs or heads, their faded garments torn and scattered. One window was broken, letting in the gloomy drizzle. Someone had been on the rampage in the flat, with a vengeance.

At his side Gail was shocked and rigid. ‘I can’t believe he’s done this.’

Stevens paused to give instructions to the fingerprint and photographic teams who were picking their way through the obstacles on the floor to reach the inner doors. He took Gail by the arm. ‘Come and sit in the car. They’ll be ages yet.’

They dodged the weather to reach it. He let her into the passenger seat, motioned his driver to go elsewhere to have a cigarette and sat in his place. ‘So tell me once more. You got home. Had the door been forced?’

Gail shook her head. ‘It was ajar a few inches. That was strange – I’d left it locked.’

‘Deadlock? Or just on the latch?’

‘On the latch. I meant to get a Chubb fitted but haven’t had a chance. To be honest, I didn’t have the money.’

‘You will now. This is an insurance job. Have you notified them?’

Gail nodded dumbly. Her face was chalky white. ‘They’ll send an assessor tomorrow.’

The atmosphere between them was different. Gail could sense that the inspector no longer saw her as perpetrator, nuisance or crank, but as a victim. They were on the same side now. That did not, however, solve all the problems.

Stevens considered. ‘You’ll need somewhere to stay tonight.’

Gail shrugged. Then, ‘It must have been him. Or somebody acting for him. He hated my dolls but knew I loved them. Why should anybody destroy a few dolls unless it was deliberately to upset me? They haven’t touched the TV or video, or the computer, or pinched anything as far as I could tell.’

‘But they have made a mess,’ Stevens continued for her. ‘And left messages.’

‘“Next time you, bitch.” In letters three inches tall. The whole place will have to be redecorated. But why, oh, why? Is Frank so mad at me? Why can’t he leave me alone?’

Stevens almost, but not quite, replied that it might help if she left Frank alone. The two-page character assassination under Jim Betts’s by-line in the
Globe
had created quite a stir, with snippets repeated in the Sundays and in digests of the week. The broadsheets had ignored it, altogether too preoccupied with the teenage son of the Home Secretary and waxing indignant that magistrates chose to condone such youngsters’ bad behaviour. An information blackout had irritated the hacks even more: the terms ‘censorship’ and ‘a free country’ had appeared in the same sentence in more than one portentous leader. Stevens was glad he had not been the constable obliged to arrest the youngster or call his parents, but felt that the force had conducted themselves reasonably well and emerged smelling of roses. Which is more than could be said of the private flat occupied by Mrs Gail Bridges.

‘Right. Several points, Mrs Bridges.’ He resumed his official manner. ‘First, if you will please take my advice, don’t go whistling off to the media about this. You could have been burgled by practically anybody: there were forty-five forced entries in this area last week alone.’

‘It wasn’t a forced entry,’ Gail muttered. ‘I couldn’t see any marks on the door. He had a key.’

‘If you have to allude to it, forced entry’s the best way to describe it. Your security was less than perfect – master keys for those locks are ten a penny. But I beg you, as I have before, if you want us to pursue this matter properly, it would help if our inquiries were not hampered by intrusive press interest.’

‘You’re telling me to keep quiet. Is that an instruction?’

Stevens took a breath. ‘As far as it is in my power to instruct you, Mrs Bridges.’ Both sat staring out of the windscreen. The rain pattered down, street lights making yellow and green patterns on the curved glass. Then Stevens stirred himself. ‘You need to feel safe, and you can’t stay there tonight, not if the insurance assessors are coming tomorrow. You mustn’t touch anything. Can we arrange a hotel for you?’

‘Hardly private, is it? They’ll want to know why I’m there.’ Gail sounded weary, as if ready to abandon the fight. Stevens fought an urge to put an arm round her. Seated next to him she was a small beaten creature. The rain patterns reflecting on her cheeks made it seem as though she was weeping. Yet her profile had an appealing nobility: as she stared ahead he could understand what Frank, his former fellow police officer, had seen in her, for all her peevishness and insecurity. If any man could bring himself to break through those barriers and reach her, she might blossom again into an attractive woman.

The silence stretched into several minutes. Then a solution suggested itself, though its nature startled Stevens. ‘There’s room at my house in Pinner,’ he said suddenly. ‘Spare room with its own bathroom. You’d be welcome.’

‘What would your wife say?’ Gail turned to look at him in surprise.

‘Mrs Stevens is living elsewhere,’ he said gruffly. ‘I am divorced. Oh, don’t back off. I’m not offering you anything other than sanctuary. If you can find something in the fridge or freezer to cook, then make yourself at home. There’s lager and white wine in the garage. The TV is cable, so watch whatever you want. The washing machine and dryer are at your disposal. Stay a few days till you get yourself together.’

‘I couldn’t possibly.’

‘Why not?’ The inspector warmed to his theme. ‘You’d be safe there. And private, absolutely.’

‘I’ll have to pack a bag,’ Gail said doubtfully. She seemed to be holding herself a little straighter than before.

‘And I still need to get a statement from you, but there’s no hurry. I have to radio in my report and retrieve my driver from the pub where he has taken shelter. Shall I expect you back here in half an hour?’

Benedict had arrived early and in a positive mood. He nodded amiably at the middle-aged concierge whose surly demeanour was so off-putting. Perhaps the man behaved better towards the block’s regular residents who presumably gave him bottles of whisky and tips at Christmas. The concierge studiously avoided his eyes. Well, if the fellow did not want to engage him in conversation that was a relief. These days, with the government slipping down the polls, everyone wanted to buttonhole recognisable politicians. Some wanted to discuss the prospects of the next election, so that when the moment came they could say, ‘I told you so.’ Others whose support for the Prime Minister was still extant, if shaky, needed to explain their anxieties to someone – anyone – in the hope that the message would get home. Of these, Benedict reflected wryly, a good few assumed he was a minister himself; it took an aficionado to distinguish between those public faces who did, or did not, hold the reins of power. Especially when those who did had been so cavalier about their supporters.

How could the government have slithered so quickly into the wilderness? They had started with such fabulous results at the hustings, gaining a bunch of new MPs so huge it dwarfed minor parties like his own. The New Democrats’ dreams of holding the balance of power in a hung Parliament had been dashed two hours after the polls closed as the whopping majorities came through. The record swing had swept the old regime into oblivion for a generation, or so it had seemed. Benedict recalled the nation’s euphoria that night as the haggard faces of former Cabinet ministers were broadcast first in puzzled denial, then wiped clean of that arrogant assumption of perpetual office that had so destroyed them. Johnson alone, their star young performer, had looked faintly smug, secure in the knowledge that a leadership contest was inevitable and that his main rival had lost his seat.

This government had promised to do better than its predecessor. It had promised as if promises had recently been invented: pledges, targets and guarantees had poured from Downing Street, couched in the simple language designed to speak directly to the aspirations of the people. ‘The people’, indeed, had become the logo slapped on every initiative: the people’s government, the people’s budget, the people’s health care. Ownership and organisation of the vital services, however, had not changed. It had turned out as difficult to recruit effective managers within the private sector as under any other system, which the railways showed. The decision-making processes had continued as ramshackle, short-sighted and underfunded as before.

The vision touted in the heady days of the new era, the glory of ‘national renewal, of a country with drive, purpose and energy’, to quote the Prime Minister, had lost none of its enormous appeal. The trouble was, Benedict reflected, it had had precious little substance. When challenged to show what progress had been made, the government’s spokesmen were stumped. The translation of hope into action had proved beyond them. Energy and drive had waned, purpose had become enfeebled by compromise and bickering. Within a remarkably short space of time nobody in the administration seemed able to articulate what they intended to do or how, precisely, they planned to carry it out. Instead, squabbling among frontbenchers, who were back-stabbing each other as if in rehearsal for an amateur production of
Julius Caesar
, and intense media scrutiny had taken their toll. Their ratings in opinion polls had plummeted overnight, a collapse that most of the ‘people’ regarded as richly deserved.

It seemed an age since the election. Several prominent names had already resigned or been relegated to minor roles. The first to choose to spend more time with their families had issued their press statements, with more expected as careers disintegrated or slowly came to a halt. Others were openly at risk: Diane Clark, Frank Bridges, two of the most genuine and honourable frontbench veterans, who rated highly in the popularity stakes especially among their own activists. Such stars should be feted by their peers, cosseted as the electoral assets they undoubtedly were. The fact that the
Prime Minister saw them as expendable said much for his own integrity and loyalty, and for the ambition of those who conspired to replace them.

Slowly Benedict descended the stairs to the basement, lost in thought. It was not in him to decry ambition: he suffered from it too deeply himself and had been surrounded by sufferers his entire adult life. He felt sympathy for a man like poor Johnson, Leader of the official Opposition, who had been taunted with the nickname ‘Pig’ when he had joined a right-wing party at the age of sixteen. Why not? Why not join up and get involved, if the passion of politics had already entered the soul, if a spirit of destiny had whispered that he, too, might influence the course of history? That was ambition, and it led men and women to display both the finest and worst of human qualities. Johnson, like himself, had striven to enter university, had immersed himself there in the most rigorous political education the state could provide. Both had revelled in the intense discussion, had taken full part at every opportunity to debate and defend their views, had researched and analysed and written up the latest findings supporting their interpretation of events and their forecasts for the future. It took ambition to do all that, and altruism: a heady mixture of self and selflessness that few outsiders could ever comprehend or appreciate.

Benedict tugged open the heavy door. To his surprise the lights were already switched on. The airless room was stifling. He fiddled with the ventilator controls but they moved only a fraction then stuck. It would be a sweaty session. He hung up his coat then sat down to wait for Lawrence.

The election was still some way off. Strong governments, like Margaret Thatcher’s, tended to go to the country early, impatient for a renewal of their mandate. Weaker administrations like Jim Callaghan’s or John Major’s, doubting their ability to brazen out their critics, tended to wait till the last minute or, at least, to delay. That could be fatal: they risked losing the initiative and created an impression of hesitancy and peevishness that was often all too accurate. They lost the plot, in other words, and tended to do poorly at the ballot whenever it came.

It remained to be seen how this government would react. There was time for them to recover their nerve and regain lost ground. Or they could cut and run: a snap poll was possible. The other contestants would have to be on their toes. But if that narrow gap began to widen between the main parties, caution would probably prevail. It might be a couple of years yet before the chance came. The odds were, it had to be admitted, that the Cabinet would see sense, smarten up its act, drop those pledges impossible to keep, apologise for mistakes and grovel for forgiveness. Benedict would not be surprised to arrive at the close of poll with an outcome much the same as before.

Idly, he began to lay out his kit and take off his clothes, hanging up the suit and shirt with care and tucking his socks inside the shoes, aligned side by side. As he sat in his shorts the mild air felt warm on his skin, welcoming instead of too hot. In hot countries everyone stripped off; unclothed torsos were everywhere. He picked up the padded box and strapped it on over his shorts, but that was not comfortable. He frowned. Then he dropped his shorts and put the box on by itself, adjusting the elasticated straps round his buttocks until they lay tidily. He caught sight of himself over his shoulder in a wall mirror and laughed. The Ashworth corpus was in better shape than it had been for some years: the exercise had clearly had an effect. His abdomen was tighter, his hips less fleshy, his thigh muscles leaner and better defined. Only the chest was still a little narrow. Perhaps he should buy some weights to use at home in the flat: an extra few centimetres on the pectorals and deltoids would do no harm, and increasing his upper body strength might mean he could start winning more points in his sessions against the experienced Lawrence.

‘Very nice,’ came a murmur. Benedict was startled. He had not heard Lawrence enter. He went to reach for a towel, then saw the amusement in his cousin’s face.

‘Don’t be so damn silly. You don’t have to cover up for me. Anyway, why shouldn’t you admire yourself? You’re not too bad these days, considering that you still spend far too much time on your backside, like most sedentary people. Let me see.’ Lawrence put a hand on Benedict’s shoulder
and half turned him round, then patted his shoulder playfully. ‘Your arse is okay. There’s a splendid tight curve to your lower back. Just keep up those shadow-boxing patterns the master taught us. Use the straddle stance to practise the punches. That’ll keep your bum in trim.’ He took off his jacket. ‘I wrote to thank him. We may not need him any more, but he set us off on the right track. Whew! Hot in here, isn’t it? Aren’t the ventilators on?’

‘They are, but I can’t get them any higher. Maybe somebody was in here yesterday and left everything going full blast. The temperature must be over eighty. Bit of a pest.’ Benedict felt himself flush and stood uncertainly, towel in hand.

Lawrence shrugged. ‘Doesn’t matter. We’re supposed to get steamed up. Nobody’s watching, anyway.’ He smoothed his trousers over his arm, his eyes seeking a hanger. ‘The one essential item of clothing is what you’ve got on. Everything else is for decency’s sake. The Greeks wore nothing – must have been painful on occasion. But I’m happy to follow your lead and forget the rest. How about it?’

And so it was agreed, and Lawrence, too, was soon attired only in the stiffened convex box. In the heat it felt more than sensible: it felt great, as if an undefined freedom had been rediscovered. Whoever had left the heaters on had done them a service. They went out into the gymnasium, faced each other and bowed in the correct manner.

It struck Benedict, seeing his cousin virtually naked for the first time, that Lawrence was more of a presence than a physical object: Benedict was aware of him completely, not simply visually. He could not have said if Lawrence’s shape resembled his own, only that the other man was slightly taller, had darker hair and nipples, and seemed to breathe in all the air round him, as if leaving none for his opponent. Lawrence held himself well, his legs apart, his centre of gravity low down in his pelvis, whereas Benedict felt light and intangible. Last time he had had this sensation he had been at his mother’s cottage, ill and soul-sick, when he had fantasised about lying on a beach or floating on the waves. But this was real: the hot sweet air had been in contact with another man inches away. He could lean over and touch whenever he liked.

Benedict shook himself. He adopted the tough, forward-facing straddle stance, elbows dug into his sides, forearms at right angles in front, fists held out palm up, thumbs horizontal and inwards closed tightly over his fingers. It made the long thigh muscles bulge with power. But in another moment Lawrence had swung him over his knee and held him head downwards, toes dangling off the ground. And Lawrence was laughing.

‘Blast!’ Benedict grunted, as he sprang to his feet. ‘I wasn’t concentrating. Bloody Japanese trick to catch a man off guard.’ He took up a more defensive stance.

‘Tae kwon do’s not Japanese, it’s Korean,’ Lawrence said, rubbing his hands in glee. ‘And you forgot to bow. I won that point. Ready.’

The two men began to struggle together in earnest. Benedict became more aware of Lawrence’s physicality: his cousin seemed to have a rich, frictional kind of strength, rather mechanical perhaps, but technically superior. Their bodies crashed together, feinted, slid away, crunched once more, ribcage to hip, heel-bone to upright palm. Lawrence flushed red where he was hit and soon had weals and marks on his body whereas Benedict remained white and tense, managing better to stay out of reach. Their skin was turning shiny with sweat, becoming slippery. They halted, discussed methods, practised grips and throws. They were becoming accustomed to each other’s rhythm, much as in their usual clothed sessions, when within twenty minutes they would achieve a mutual bodily understanding; but this time their attention was far more focused, conferring an astonishing intensity and potency on their every move.

‘Enough!’ Benedict backed off, conceded a point, bowed awkwardly. ‘I’m desperately thirsty. Where’s the water bottle?’

The two stood close together, drinking straight from the plastic bottle and panting hard.

Lawrence flicked hair out of his eyes and towelled his face and arms. ‘Your blocking is brilliant today,’ he started to say, but Benedict had reached out and gently prodded an angry red mark that had erupted over his cousin’s ribs. ‘I kicked you a bit hard there. Sorry. Does it hurt?’

‘That? No, it looks ugly, but it’ll fade. If we were really going for it, you’d have broken a couple of my ribs with that kick of yours. The master told me that in competitions that happens even when everyone’s wearing full body armour. Contact sports are not for the squeamish. Anyway, there’s nobody at home to complain: you’re the one we have to cosset, in case Christine gets upset or thinks you’ve been beaten up. Let’s crack on.’

So they wrestled again, swiftly, rapturously, intent and focused, each pitching his weight, balance and wits against the other. Benedict forced his intelligence into play, trying to anticipate Lawrence’s feints and kicks, feeling the edge of the blows on his defending forearms. His awareness of Lawrence as a fuller, physical presence grew by the minute. Now and again came a sharp gasp of breath as a blow went home, or a tackle was broken, then a thud on the floor, or the strange sound of flesh slapping into and escaping flesh. Frequently, in the whole interlaced knot of the violent, threshing being that swayed and tumbled, there was no head to be seen, only the intertwined limbs, the solid curved backs, like monstrous Siamese twins fused into a single writhing shape. Then the gleaming damp head of one or the other would reappear, Lawrence’s face always with teeth parted in a grin, Benedict with eyes he knew were wide and fearful yet exultant.

They should have stopped for another breather, but each time they broke away, one or the other would take up a stance, free fighting, or forward, or sideways, one leg bent like a crane, offering a more limited target to a full frontal onslaught. Lawrence jumped to the advance, spinning and lunging, his extra weight beginning to tell, but Benedict danced away, attempted a kick, tried a punch to the jaw, missed, then leaped to one side. The fight flowed mindless and rapid, neither man conscious of the clock, till suddenly a blow landed, or two, simultaneously: and they both collapsed lengthwise to the floor.