This Honourable House (26 page)

Mrs Bridges was proving popular today. Mrs Bridges had been injured in some sort of accident; the police were discreetly involved. The nurse felt vaguely excited. If this was self-harm, he could be called as a witness in a prosecution for wasting police time. Given the self-pity she showed whenever she was bathed or turned, self-harm could not be ruled out; the nature and extent of her injuries, however, suggested it was unlikely, unless it had been a stunt gone wrong. At least that meant she was not dangerous to others. Saturday night was the worst when the fights and knifings came in. However weak they might initially appear with shock or loss of blood, it was wisest to stitch them up, men and girls, and send them home pronto. If they sobered up on a ward they were liable to smash the place about, plus anyone foolish enough to get in their way.

Once, the man reflected, as he peered at the shadowy movements behind the frosted glass of Mrs Bridges’ room, this job had brought both satisfaction and status. TV programmes like
Casualty
had educated the public. When he had said he was a male nurse he would be called ‘Charlie’ after the popular character in the series. Governments, however, of every colour had persisted in taking the organisation for granted, had squeezed budgets to trumpet their prudence instead of increasing them to demonstrate their humanity. Now even Cabinet ministers were discomforted on visits. He had seen the wrinkled nose on the face of Mr Frank Bridges, the unconcealed rictus of distaste. It was as nothing compared to the contempt in which such people were held by those in the caring services for which they were responsible.

Inspector Stevens removed his leather gloves and halted by the side ward. He could hear low voices inside, and recognised the bulky shadow of the Cabinet minister. He stepped back, took off his cap,
walked a few steps, found a battered plastic chair and sat on it.

In a few moments Frank emerged. Stevens stood up. ‘Good afternoon, sir.’

‘What?’ Frank looked puzzled.

It came to Stevens that perhaps he thought he was about to be arrested. ‘Michael Stevens, Metropolitan Police. I’m the officer on Mrs Bridges’ case.’

Frank grabbed his arm and pulled him into an alcove. ‘What the fuck’s going on? I thought she was going off her head, sending herself that hate mail and such. She was often a bit close to the edge, was Gail, what with those stupid dolls and not having enough to occupy herself. But now …’ His voice trailed away.

‘This is genuine.’

Frank began to bluster. ‘She thinks I organised it somehow. Complete rubbish. The product of a disordered mind, even if she didn’t actually do it herself.’

Stevens felt confused. If Frank Bridges were ever to face charges, in itself unlikely, a far more senior officer than himself would handle it. But his new friendship with Gail might continue, and that was increasingly important to him. He adopted an emollient tone. ‘It may be that somebody’s trying to get at you, sir, and targeting her instead. I am in contact with your protection officers, and with CID. I wish now that I had handed it over sooner.’

The two men glanced briefly into each other’s eyes. Frank understood that Stevens was making a remarkably candid admission: it was not normal practice for an officer to volunteer that he had made a mistake, and certainly not to an outsider. He sighed. ‘I feel sorry for her. Guilty, to some degree. But she’s got to see there’s no going back.’

Stevens remained detached. ‘I shall need to interview you formally and take a statement. Meanwhile it would help if you could draw up a list of contacts, constituents maybe, individuals who feel aggrieved, who might take it into their heads to do this sort of thing.’

‘Old cons I put away?’

‘God knows. This is needle-in-haystack territory.’

Frank nodded, his head lowered. Stevens did not need to elaborate.

The lean man with the Scouse accent settled into the sleek grey carriage of the Eurostar train. As it pulled silently out of Waterloo he smiled.

Job well done. This time. The computer had gone up with a fair bang, but the pinhead of Semtex had been insufficient to kill. The intention had been to maim, and it had done that effectively. The lady would have the scars for ever. On her face, where she would see them whenever she caught a glimpse of herself in a mirror. Every time she combed her hair or put on lipstick. It was a satisfying sensation.

But it was not enough. Enough for Frank, maybe, whose purpose had been to have her scared off. When Frank had said he wanted her off his back, six feet underground was not what he had had in mind. Frank was not the killing sort. Indeed, deep down Frank was appallingly squeamish, which is why he had ended up going straight.

When they were kids, and the gang had delighted in capturing a cat and torturing it, Frank was the one who would thump each of them and try to rescue it. He was a strong lad, and nobody much liked to argue with him, but inside he was soft as butter. He didn’t enjoy the final cut, did not relish the shudders of the mangled animal as it gave up its last. Causing pain held no pleasure for him, death did not thrill him. He would never have made a serious criminal: a burglar, maybe, or a fraudster, but not someone who was prepared to hurt or finish off anyone who wanted to play the hero.

The traveller laughed to himself. One parole report years ago from Walton jail had labelled him a psychopath, a continued threat to the public who should never be released. Prisons bursting at
the seams had put paid to that. But he trod carefully, these days. He preferred not to be caught. In prison you could get up to little; outside, opportunities presented themselves unexpectedly. A homeless teenager here, a drunk under a railway bridge there. They called it mindless violence but that was inaccurate: the mind was engaged at every single second, as the bones crunched, as the brain matter spurted out. He loved to feel under his hands those surges of desperate energy. But he also enjoyed contemplating the more distant murders, those he could not himself witness. Like sorting out Mrs Bridges. And, whether Frank liked it or not, this time the task would be completed. Frank would not be told. There would be no contact. Vic the Villain did not need thanks.

The oil from her car was still on his fingers. Odd that nobody had been guarding it. The police should have been, but were nowhere in sight. Another staff shortage, no doubt. Next time somebody switched on the ignition, the result would be spectacular. If anyone lived through that, it would be a miracle.

The afternoons were special. They didn’t happen very often and were too soon over; more than one in a fortnight or so would have been spotted and was too risky. But when an evening engagement required smart dress, a long frock or a top with glitter or sequins, Diane had a credible excuse to leave the office early and return to her flat to change. And Edward would be waiting, the coffee made, the curtains drawn, the bedclothes pulled back invitingly.

Those afternoons, grabbed by both whenever possible, were ring-fenced for love. And for love alone. No papers came home. The ministerial boxes were still on officials’ desks, half filled with drafts and briefs and lines-to-take. ‘Close of business’ would be around six-thirty. After that the boxes would be locked and delivered wherever the minister had ordered: to the office in the Commons if a vote was expected, or home or elsewhere. Government drivers knew where ministers slept and whether they were with official or unofficial partners. But in the afternoons, no boxes got in the way.

For Diane these snatched interludes had become increasingly precious. Edward stayed most nights, of course, but she was often weary then, or struggling with a mind still focused, anxious to be prepared for the following day before she dropped off to sleep. Edward would be earnestly supportive: if she was preoccupied he would tactfully produce some worthy volume from his briefcase and read silently. He was never fretful, never complained. But papers strewn over the bedclothes were not conducive to laughter or lovemaking. It was no wonder that political marriages fell apart when sex was supposed to take precedence over parliamentary reports. Those spouses were being naive. They should have realised what they were letting themselves in for, when they took up with a politician.

Diane pulled her sweater over her head, her arms up, lifting her big breasts closer to where they used to be when she was young. She felt Edward’s eyes linger on her body. ‘Not bad, huh?’ she teased, as she reached behind to unhook her bra.

‘Let me do that,’ Edward said, and rose to join her. He was wearing jockey shorts in a muted tartan. Not for the first time Diane saw with a pang how young he looked. Unlike hers, his body was naturally firm; the skin clung neatly to the muscles and joints whereas her own sometimes felt slack. Lack of exercise was making her belly sag; a clear line had appeared under her navel. He stood behind her, unfastened the bra and slipped his hands over her breasts as he kissed her shoulders. His fingers found the dark nipples and pinched, gently, till Diane shivered with delight. Then he turned her till she faced him and kissed her full and hard on the mouth. She pretended to resist, then hugged him to her as if fearful that it might all be a dream.

She adored him to take charge. It surprised her a bit, her willingness to be submissive; she had allowed it with only one or two others, when her lover’s own vulnerability had softened her innate objections and let her encourage him to dominate. It was compensation for the fact that she was the older one, far more famous, better paid, more experienced sexually and emotionally. It did not follow that she was the more mature or decisive of the two; not one jot. Indeed, at moments such as this, as Edward showed a sureness and confidence he had not had at the beginning, it seemed to Diane that they were closer to being true equals than at any time since the limbo-dance party, when he had come first to do her bidding.

Their lovemaking, as always in the afternoon, was languorous and satisfying. He took over with real energy, playing with her where he knew she would react, making her squeal and twist away from his exploring hands. For fun, they would try new ideas: he had bought a humming dildo from a catalogue, which tickled and purred. Both had been convulsed with giggles but had decided they preferred to play without toys. It was more than half an hour before Edward entered her, and hazily, through the convulsion of orgasm, she knew he was more in command of her than ever.

And knew with absolute certainty that this was the one lover she did not wish to treat as a
chattel, as women had been dealt with since time immemorial. That was how she had tended to handle her men: casually, dismissively, especially the younger ones. But not Edward. Selfishness was still predominant in her mind: Diane was aware that, in her personal life at least, she had had no practice in putting somebody else’s needs ahead of her own. Selfishly, she did not want to lose him. But her feelings for him compared with those for previous lovers were far stronger and more confused, unfamiliar, and yet as natural as if she had been born to love him. For it was for his sake as well as her own that she did not want to give him up. She could protect him, and care for him, and give him all the love any man could want or hope for.

But what if…?

She lay half under him, panting softly, and stroked his damp hair. ‘Edward. Do you want children?’

‘Good Lord,’ he said, and settled himself beside her. ‘I don’t know. I don’t think so – though I can’t say I haven’t thought about it.’

‘So tell me your thoughts.’

‘The opportunity hasn’t presented itself, but I probably wouldn’t make a perfect father. And I have to think what I might be passing on.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Genetics. I do get this depression. It’s in abeyance right now, or seems to be, but on the days when I don’t see you, Diane, I feel crazy with misery. Maybe it’s inherited, in which case I wouldn’t want any child of mine to suffer.’

‘That’s very altruistic of you,’ Diane murmured, smiling. ‘Most would-be parents don’t start from that viewpoint.’

‘I have to consider such matters.’ There were times when Edward was impervious to teasing, when he refused to make light of the issues at hand. ‘And I must have come from some sort of dysfunctional family, or why would I have been given away? It does worry me that maybe there’s something seriously damaged in my background. So till I have more information, I’d rather not slip haphazardly into parenthood.’ He paused and looked at her. ‘Is that the answer you wanted?’

She nibbled a thumbnail. ‘I guess so. It means I’m not depriving you of anything, since I can’t give you half a dozen kids. A relief, I suppose. But in the long run you’d make a terrific daddy.’

‘And you,’ he nuzzled her neck, ‘would have made a great mummy. It’s a pity your genes were never passed on.’

Diane was silent, then sighed. ‘Lots of things might have been different, ages ago,’ she said, almost to herself. She glanced at him, her eyelids flickering, as if she might say more. Then she snuggled down, her face in the hollow between his shoulder and chest.

‘So, if you’re not bothered about kids, how about marriage?’ she asked, keeping her voice light. ‘Some pretty bird’ll come along and I’ll have lost you.’

‘No.’ His tone was sombre. ‘I don’t see myself as ever marrying. Odd, isn’t it? I’m not
anti-marriage
but since you came into my life, Diane, it’s been such a remote possibility that I’ve dismissed it.’

‘Why?’ Diane could hardly breathe.

‘Because it’d have to be somebody exactly like you. Somebody remarkable, with your feistiness, and your honesty, and your passion. It’d have to be you, or nobody. I have come to realise that I love you, and I will love you for ever. And as there are no substitutes for the real thing, I’m resolved to enjoy what I have as long as I can, with no regrets.’

‘It could be me.’ Diane could feel her heart pounding so hard in the still room that she was certain Edward must be able to hear it.

‘Why? Would you marry me?’ Edward lifted his head so that he could stare straight into her eyes. ‘You are kidding me, aren’t you, darling? Don’t, please, that would hurt.’

‘Not kidding.’ Diane’s voice was muffled. ‘Oh, not now. Not while I’m so much in the firing line, it wouldn’t be fair on you. The press’d make mincemeat of us both, not least because of the age gap, which we’re sure is nonsense. But when this life is over, of course I’d marry you. Or whatever permanent arrangement you prefer. I love you to distraction, Edward. I can’t treat you the same as any other, casting you off when I’ve done. I can’t imagine ever being tired of you. If you share any of the same feelings towards me, then maybe we should start considering it. Properly.’

‘God in heaven.’ Edward kissed her hair, and held her, squeezing her tightly to himself as if fearful she might slip away. ‘If that’s a proposal, Diane, then I can’t imagine ever leaving you either.’

‘Nuff,’ Diane said gruffly. ‘Let’s just think of staying together. When this mad time is done, we can make a home. Till then, it’ll have to be our secret, won’t it?’

Andrew Marquand stared out of the window. A red box lay open on a bookcase and from time to time the door would open, a civil servant from his private office would slide past noiselessly and deposit more folders in it. It was his intention as usual to devour the material before he finished for the evening, and leave the box, locked and dealt with, alongside any others on his desk.

He would have explained that he did not permit work to intrude on private time. To an alternatively worded question, he might have implied that in the political milieu it was virtually impossible to insulate home entirely from the job; that the role of a government minister was not quite the same as that of a dustman or bus driver. That was because, as he was ready to admit, the workload was heavy and far more than a normal timetable could accommodate. The boxes filled and emptied relentlessly as if by magic; they would have fitted into a Greek myth, a trial of Sisyphus that would have defeated any hero.

But the failure to separate home and profession had a more profound cause. An elected individual offered himself in his entirety, his personality defects and all, to voters who were insatiable for tit-bits of personal information. Andrew might have been aware of sounding smug as he said this, as many people are who do not bother to hide their opinion that they are smarter than everyone else. In his case, though, such an opinion was justified.

He brooded quietly. What did a man have to do to win the top laurels? How far must he go before he was given the full credit he was due, with the accolades that went with that recognition?

He moved from the window and paid gloomy homage to Disraeli’s bust. The sightless eyes in the white marble gazed beyond Andrew’s ear at a distant horizon; the expression was solemn and earnest, as if the great politician’s ghost was engaged in detailed exposition of the benefits of buying the Suez Canal to some audience of bored angels. But the hero of all chancellors was William Pitt. His achievements stood the test of centuries. ‘Oh, my country! How I leave my country!’ he said as he died, as if he were king rather than an elected lackey.

It was unusual for chancellors to succeed in becoming Prime Minister. Pitt, Gladstone and Lloyd George were the exceptions. It was said that parliamentarians listened so raptly to Gladstone’s three-hour speeches less because they admired his intellect than because they were keen to know whether he could ever complete his interminably convoluted sentences: no doubt they had also run a sweepstake on the length. Most, like Stafford Cripps or Hugh Dalton or R.A.B. Butler, were but footnotes in historical archives. Churchill had also made it to the top rank, but only because of the crisis of 1940; his father was more typical. When, in a fit of histrionics, in 1886 Lord Randolph Churchill offered to resign, the Prime Minister of the day accepted, murmuring that he was ‘not a man to prevent the suicide of a nuisance’. Roy Jenkins went off to found the SDP and so ensured the supremacy of Margaret Thatcher for a generation. Nigel Lawson ended up talking more about his diet than his economics. It was difficult to recall more recent chancellors than that: had they simply vanished into the ether, along with turgid statements on social security up-ratings and the odd tweak of inheritance tax? Was that to be his fate too?

In Andrew’s breast burned the fire of unsatisfied ambition. The transition from Number Eleven to Number Ten Downing Street was not impossible. Macmillan had made it, and so had John Major. If John Major could, then anyone could. What hurt was the realisation – the simple
fact
– that the government’s returning fortunes were entirely due to the buoyant economy; and that he, Andrew Marquand, Chancellor of the Exchequer, could claim that remarkable turnaround as entirely his doing. It was not the efforts of the Prime Minister, who was fine at making speeches and appearing serious and leader-like on television. It galled Andrew that, with his own lugubrious face, large jaw and pugnacious manner, the electorate found him forbidding when in private he could be witty and pleasant company. Who outside Westminster was aware of that? And why should one have to be witty and charming to win the necessary support in this fast-moving modern world where global business took decisions at the flick of a switch?

Surely ability to do the job well was vastly more important. The image-makers indulged in the superficial and pandered to tastes that were wholly inappropriate: an unremitting interest in the personal lives of ministers, when they should have been asking how they measured up in terms of competence and efficiency.

‘If we were judged by results, I’d be the Boss already,’ Andrew growled to the silent Disraeli. If men were judged by potential, he’d have been in the leader’s shoes right from the start. That grated more than anything. The gap between where he stood and where he wanted to arrive was physically barely a hundred yards. In reality it could have been from here to Mars.

Other chancellors had been eaten by their own self-regard. If they didn’t make the promotion leap they disappeared, often in a flurry of recrimination and bitterness. It might be enough to bide his time. The Prime Minister could not manage without his talents and no one else came close. Who could tell what might happen, if some day the PM stumbled over his toothy smile or decided to spend more time with his adoring family?

His own daily grind was much bleaker. The homework would expand to fill whatever void existed. Andrew did not like taking the boxes back to his grace-and-favour flat in Admiralty Arch because it was the loneliest place on earth. He did not care to be reminded that he was alone, and would be sleeping alone.