by David Harley
With a touch on the button of the remote, he fast-forwarded to “Stardust” and they morphed into a slow waltz, his left arm theatrically outstretched, tango-like, and his right hand clasping her left buttock. She wriggled in pleasure and they swayed in time to the music, in perfect harmony. In a few minutes he would carry her through and throw her on to the bed, but for the moment he was lost in her bergamot scent, her gentle gyrations and the compulsive rhythm of the song. He wanted the moment to last forever. They fitted together perfectly and she danced like a dream. When the breathy, velvety tenor sax solo came on, he grabbed her tight and could hardly hold back any longer. He was in heaven.
When the music stopped, he took her into the bedroom and fucked her like there was no tomorrow. When he turned her round, she howled and hollered like a prairie bitch. As he approached his climax, he felt the whole of Number Ten rocking on its very foundations, the ship of state loosening its moorings, buffeted by the raging sea of his passion. Free at last and on top forever.
They lay breathless, side-by-side, for a few minutes, and then Valentina went into the bathroom. He heard the sound of the shower and then the hair-dryer, before she came back with two towels and a bottle of nail varnish. After throwing a towel at Crouch and placing the other on her lap, she began doing her nails, sitting on the side of the bed.
‘Are we staying or moving?’ she asked. ‘I need to know.’
Crouch stopped rubbing himself down. He was surprised at the question, and found it cheeky.
‘I’m going to win. Even if I don’t, we’re staying here. Trust me.’
She looked hard at the nail on her left forefinger under the light, apparently not satisfied.
‘From what they say on TV, it’s not that simple,’ said Valentina, dabbing another drop of varnish on the little brush. ‘We Russians are a strong people. We don’t back losers. Suppose you’re defeated – what then?’
‘It won’t happen. I’ll always be there for you.’
‘That’s what you say now. Who can see into the future?’
She put the top back on the bottle of nail varnish, and stood up to her full height, raising her head, looking down on him, flaunting her naked body.
‘Come here,’ he said, pulling back the sheet so she could slide in next to him. She shook her head impatiently.
‘I’ve got to let my nails dry. Anyway, we’ve had our fun. It’s been interesting to see how you screw people at the heart of government. I’ve learned a lot. Now it’s time for me to get dressed and go to the airport. My flight leaves in two hours.’
Couch sat up in bed, trying to grab her hand.
‘Why? You can’t go anywhere – I need you here. Where are you going?’
‘Didn’t I tell you – my mother’s sick. I’m going back to Moscow.’
‘I thought you came from Donetsk?’
Without replying, she leaned over and kissed him on the forehead, before taking some clothes out of the cupboard and going back into the bathroom, locking the door behind her. He soon heard the sound of the radio, which was playing a selection of loud and melancholic Russian love-songs. She knew full well he couldn’t stand them. He shouted at her to turn down the volume, but she pretended not to hear him through the closed door. Over half-an-hour later, she reappeared in all her splendour, dressed in a matching black jacket and skirt, and five-inch heels. As Crouch feasted proudly on her beauty, she put her hands on her hips and spat out her goodbye message.
‘If you want to see me again, you’ll have to treat me with more respect. Less rough sex, more nights in the box at Covent Garden. A proper job with a nice title. By the way, I’ve been reporting back every week. Moscow told me I’m worth my weight in diamonds. Let me know one day what you really intend.’
What had come over her? She had never complained before. He heard her stop as she walked across the living room. Then came a clicking sound, and the crackly music started playing. He knew the words well – they often danced to the song in the early days of their romance. The lyrics had always made Valentina laugh – “It reminds me of how stupid and naive the Americans are,’’ she used to say.
Crouch heard the front door closing as the syncopated words drifted into the bedroom: “Don’t sit under the apple tree, with anyone else but me, anyone else but me …Till I come marching home.’
He couldn’t believe it. After everything he had done for her and all the good times they had enjoyed together, the bitch had dumped him at the moment he needed her most.
Draping the towel around his waist, he went over to the window and pulled back the curtain, to catch a last glimpse of his sulphurous lover that was. To his amazement, he saw Valentina elegantly stepping into a dark blue Jaguar, one of the official Downing Street fleet. Her skirt rode up her thighs as she sat down inside the car, and the person holding the door for her was Giles Penfold.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Matt wondered if the waiting would ever end. It was now close to five o’clock in the morning, and the first rays of midsummer sun shone through the line of windows on each side of the school hall, giving an unreal, dystopian glow to the proceedings. The light appeared too bright both for the time of day and for the solemn announcement that was now imminent. He counted that around five hundred people were still present in the hall, nervously awaiting the final verdict. As the low chatter around the room gradually subsided, he could hear birdsong outside. Its cheerful, chirruping normality sounded out of place, and grated on his nerves.
As the candidates waited for Mrs Fortescue, the returning officer, to take up position centre-stage and finally give the result, Matt scrolled through the hundreds of missed calls and good luck messages he had received on his iPhone. The Archbishop of Canterbury and the director-general of the CBI were among those requesting an early meeting. He’d never had any contact with either of them before. Most of the other messages were from people who were completely unknown to him. He shook his head and looked up at the rafters in disbelief, as if appealing either for confirmation from on high that this was indeed his destiny, or for a sign that none of this was really happening.
Strangely, he didn’t feel remotely tired, despite having been up since dawn the previous day. The news he had received just before coming on to the podium had given him an intense early-morning rush. He couldn’t remember feeling so wide-awake after a sleepless night since his late teens. Only in those days, he had survived on generous doses of drink, mischief and sex. Tonight he had got through on a less heady cocktail of hope, ambition and milky tea. Presumably, the energy would quickly drain out of him once the ordeal was over. He steeled himself to keep on going for just a few more minutes.
It would be a relief to leave the cavernous school hall. There was something oppressive and disturbingly institutional about it. Despite the calm efficiency of the tellers, and the guarded politeness of the other officials he had spoken to, Matt couldn’t quite shake off the feeling that he was taking part in a mysterious experiment inside a giant laboratory. Soon he would have to return to the real world outside, and deal with his many enemies.
At the start of the evening, Matt had found it vaguely interesting to observe democracy in action as the counting began. As the hours passed, one pile of ballot papers began to look very much like another. He was less interested in the process of the count than in the result.
All through the night, Matt had refused to contemplate the possibility of victory and its inevitable consequences. He could see from the piles of papers laid out on the long trestle tables, ward by ward, polling station by polling station, that he and Crouch were a long way ahead of the rest. The Green candidate was some way behind in third place, neck and neck with Labour. Crouch had presumably received most of the votes from the few remaining Conservatives, whose candidate was trailing badly. The smaller parties – including the Liberal Democrats and UKIP, both fast-disappearing relics from a bygone age – had received negligible support. In some areas, Matt’s piles were much higher than Crouch’s; in ot
hers, Crouch seemed to have the advantage: it looked extremely tight and too close to call.
Crouch had insisted on the recount. After the first count had been completed, Mrs Fortescue summoned all eight candidates and their agents into the makeshift office behind a dark blue curtain to tell them the result, before the official announcement. They nervously shuffled their feet and formed a loosely grouped semi-circle, with Matt and Crouch at opposite ends, ignoring each other. Matt was surprised that he felt so calm. They all listened intently as the returning officer read out the number of votes obtained by each candidate. When she had finished, for a moment no one spoke. Everyone except Crouch looked at Matt. He had won by just over three hundred votes.
Matt had put on his magnanimous-in-victory face, when Crouch lashed out.
‘That’s not possible. There must be a mistake - I was ahead in over half the wards. This is blatant fraud.’
So gracious, thought Matt. Typical of the man.
Mrs Fortescue bent her head and looked over her glasses at Crouch with a smile so withering as to reduce most grown men to jelly. Crouch curled his upper lip and said nothing.
‘No personal attacks, please,’ said the returning officer. ‘If you’re unhappy, there’s a procedure to deal with that, as you well know.’
Matt could see that Crouch was still trying to keep a lid on his anger, for fear of upsetting Mrs Fortescue. What the hell, if he wanted a recount, Matt wouldn’t oppose it. The end result would be the same. And so it was decided, officially by amicable agreement but in reality through gritted teeth, to proceed to a recount. His demand satisfied, Crouch stomped out of Mrs Fortescue’s office, followed by his agent. Matt braced himself for another two-hour wait at least before the final result was confirmed.
Throughout the evening, Matt had followed on his smartphone and on TV the news coming in from across the country. Rob and Sam updated him continuously on SOCA’s performance as the exit polls were followed by the first results. At last the picture was becoming clear and, from what he could tell, looking increasingly positive for SOCA. After doing the rounds of his friends and supporters in the hall, thanking them and telling them he was cautiously optimistic, Matt sat down with Rob and Sam in a secluded corner to analyse the situation. With one eye on the TV screen fixed to the wall in front of them, Matt asked Rob for a summary of the latest overall position.
‘Hold on to your chair, and make sure you’re sitting comfortably,’ Rob began. ‘You won’t believe this, but SOCA candidates are performing better than expected in every region across the country, except the Home Counties and East Anglia. The ENP are also doing well, but not enough to win a majority. With three-quarters of the results confirmed, the pundits on all TV channels are predicting a narrow overall majority of ten to fifteen seats for SOCA. The way things are going, you’ll be asked to form the next government.’
Matt barely had time register the news, when Sam prodded him in the stomach. ‘It looks like it’s going to get even better,’ she said, pointing at the TV screen.
‘We have some dramatic breaking news from West Thameside, where unofficial reports claim that the Prime Minister James Crouch has lost his seat after a recount …’
Loud cheers erupted all over the hall - news travelled fast.
‘We repeat that the official result of the count has not yet been announced – indeed we understand that formally the count is not yet finished – and this news should be treated with the utmost precaution. If true however, it would be a devastating blow to the English Nationalist Party and to James Crouch personally. And of course a defeat for Crouch on his home turf would open the way to Number Ten for Matt Barker, as leader of SOCA and potentially the next prime minister. But let’s wait and see if this crucial result is confirmed before we start drawing any conclusions.’
The other two looked at him, wide-eyed. Matt straightened his tie.
‘One step at a time. Let’s wait for the final figures. Anyone feel like another cup of tea?’
Half an hour later, the returning officer walked on to the platform carrying a sheaf of papers. Matt quickly put away his phone. From his place at the end of the line of candidates, he noticed her sturdy brown lace-up shoes. At that precise moment, for him Mrs Fortescue represented everything that was best about England – dependable, unflappable, no sufferer of fools, ever mindful of the general interest but never making a fuss about it. He wanted to kiss her on both cheeks. Not a sound could be heard in the hall, as Mrs Fortescue raised the microphone an inch or two on its stand and tapped it a couple of times. Reassured that everything was in working order, she began to read out the final result of the election of the Member of Parliament for the West Thameside constituency.
Matt looked down the line of candidates at James Crouch. His face was white and his mouth was quivering. He caught Matt’s eye and gave a stiff little bow, which Matt reciprocated, his eyes narrowed, with a barely perceptible move of the head. This wasn’t a cricket match or the moment to invoke the Olympic spirit. Crouch deserved every ounce of the crushing public humiliation that would be heaped upon him. Matt had no time for him any more. Crouch had killed and maimed and shown no mercy. Let him suffer and rot.
Matt wondered if Mrs Fortescue realised that her announcement would fire the first shot in a national revolution. On balance, it was likely that she understood perfectly well. She was Middle England, coming together, doing its duty.
He felt the moment of culmination rushing towards him, scattering all other thoughts and impediments in its wake. In a few seconds, the phalanx of cameras would swivel in his direction, and in a trice the image of Crouch’s defeat and Matt’s victory would be immortalised and digitalised around the world. The preternatural calm required at such times enveloped his body and very being. He instinctively composed himself to look serene, humble and strong.
When the returning officer began reading out the number of votes received by each candidate, Matt barely listened to what was being said. Then he heard Crouch’s name and result…’James Maxwell Crouch, English Nationalist Party, twenty-seven thousand, nine hundred and seventy-three …’ followed by the thunderous cheers of his supporters. They were convinced their man had won. Then came Matt’s turn.
Was it his imagination, or was Mrs Fortescue hesitating? Perhaps they had somehow got to her at the last minute. She took out a handkerchief from her sleeve and wiped her brow. Her arms stiffened, tightening her grip on the document she was holding with both hands, as if frightened that someone might snatch it from her. She let out a deep breath, which was audibly amplified by the microphone, and began to read the number of votes obtained by the next candidate on the list.
‘Matthew Frederick Barker, Save Our Country Alliance, twenty-eight thousand –’
Pandemonium broke out before Mrs Fortescue could finish. The majority of those present stamped and whistled, screaming and cheering to the rafters. A minority – Crouch’s irate supporters – booed and jeered. A few scuffles broke out at the back of the hall. Mrs Fortescue appealed for silence and then repeated Matt’s tally. Above the din, straining his ears, Matt just managed to hear her final words.
‘I therefore declare Matthew Frederick Barker to be the duly elected Member of Parliament for this constituency.’
The deafening applause rang out again. Matt could hardly make himself heard as he thanked the returning officer, and was rewarded with a wink and the hint of a smile from Mrs Fortescue. He moved centre-stage to begin his acceptance speech and thank his supporters for this historic result.
‘Tonight the people of West Thameside have turned back the tide. We have defeated the forces of repression, and given our country a fresh chance. All we ever asked for was fairness and justice for all – ’
There was no point in continuing. As the SOCA chant ‘Justice Now, Justice Now’ was quickly picked up all across the hall, Crouch was bundled off the podium by his protection officers. Waving aside his own security detail, preceded by a dozen TV cameras and twice as many photogra
phers, Matt stepped down from the platform and weaved a triumphant procession through the frenzied crowd, shaking outstretched hands, accepting congratulations and kisses, thanking everyone over and over again for all the hard work that had brought about this truly historic result.
‘Tonight this is your victory, and a victory for the people of England,’ he shouted at his supporters above the din. ‘The nationalists are finished. Our time has come.’
Outside, a light rain was falling. As Matt crossed the car park, breathing in the fresh air, he saw the silhouette of a familiar face behind the window on the driver’s side of a beaten-up blue Volvo. The man was wearing earplugs and seemed to be talking to himself. Matt tapped on the window; it opened to reveal a rotund, bald, bespectacled man whom he knew only too well. On any other day he would have smashed his face. The man removed his earplugs.
‘Good morning, Mr Penfold,’ said Matt. ‘What brings you here? Are you going to join your lord and master – or are you jumping ship?’
Penfold stroked the top of his pate, playing for time.
‘I’ll sit tight for a few days, watch which way the wind’s blowing. We civil servants are supposed to keep our heads down until the next government’s been formed.’
‘It must be difficult for you, to be on the losing side for once. Aren’t you going to congratulate me?’
‘Personally, I’m delighted. But you should be careful. The real battle’s just about to begin – the generals are getting restless.’
‘Haven’t you understood – you can’t frighten me any more, Penfold. Things have changed.’
‘Good luck, Matthew.’
The car-window closed and Penfold drove off towards the blue lights flashing at the exit to the car park. As the prime minister’s convoy moved away, Matt could see Penfold’s old Volvo following at a discreet distance behind.