Mondelli refrained from adding that he had complicated matters notoriously by running off with a young television actress from Naples while still married to the sister of the Italian Minister of Finance. He was now greeted in Rome with as much warmth as a coachload of English soccer fans.
'Very sad, Signor Mondelli, I feel for you. But surely this is an Italian matter.'
'It is a European matter, Signor Akat. The bureaucrats act in the name of Europe. They overstretch themselves. And you and the British are well known for being the best and most strong opponents of interfering bureaucrats in Brussels. So I ask you, for consideration. For 'elp. Stop the directive. The Environment Commissioner in Brussels. 'E is English. Your friend, eh?'
'You might say that . . .'
'A nice man - a little weak, perhaps. Too easily led astray by 'is officials. But nice.'
'You might say that, too . . .'
'I understand 'e wishes you to reappoint 'im when 'is term of office expires. 'E will listen to you.' It was true, of course, every word.
'You might conclude that, Signor Mondelli, but I couldn't possibly comment.'
'Prime Minister, I could not describe 'ow grateful 1 would be.'
This was not accurate. Urquhart knew from his Party Chairman that Mondelli had described precisely how grateful he wished to be. He had suggested one hundred thousand pounds, paid to party funds. 'In recognition of a great internationalist', as he had put it. Stamper had thought himself very skilful in bringing such a prize to the party; Urquhart was about to disillusion him.
'I'm afraid I cannot help you, Signor Mondelli.'
'Ah, your British sense of 'umour.' He did not sound as if he appreciated it.
Urquhart's expression suggested he'd been weaned on pickles. 'Your personal problems are really something for the Italian authorities to sort out. You must understand that.'
'I will be ruined . ..'
'A great pity.'
'But I thought . . .' The Italian threw a beseeching look at Stamper, who shrugged his shoulders. 'I thought you could 'elp me.'
'I cannot help you, Signor Mondelli, not as an Italian citizen. Not directly.'
Mondelli was tearing at his black tie and his eyes seemed to bulge still further in consternation.
'However, in the serious circumstances perhaps I can share something with you. The British Government, too, is unenthusiastic about the Brussels proposals. In our own interest, you understand. If it were left entirely up to me, I would veto the whole scheme.' The orchestra were beginning to reassemble in the pit, and a buzz of expectation began to rise around the opera house.
'Unfortunately,' Urquhart continued, 'this is one of but a number of issues we have to negotiate with our European partners and with the Commissioners, even the British ones. There will be give and take. And we have so many distractions on the home front. Times are likely to get tough, very distracting.'
'My entire business is at stake, Prime Minister. Either the regulations go under, or I do.'
'As serious as that?'
'Yes!'
'Well, it would be a happy coincidence if my Government's interests were to coincide with your own.' ‘I would be so grateful . . .'
'If I were in your position, Signor Mondelli, facing ruin . . .' - he paused to sniff the air, like a prowling wolf - ‘I think I should be ten-fold grateful.'
Urquhart gave a perfunctory laugh to suggest light-heartedness, but the Italian had understood. Urquhart had led him to the edge of the cliff and made him peer over; now he offered a lifeline. Mondelli stopped to consider for a few moments, and when he spoke there was no alarm left in his voice. They were no longer talking lifeline, but business. The sum represented around two per cent of his annual profit - significant, but affordable. And his accountants might find a way to write it off against tax as an overseas investment. He nodded his head slowly.
'As you say, Signor Akat, I would indeed be grateful. Tenfold.'
Urquhart appeared not to have heard, as if he were pursuing his own idea quite separately from the Italian. 'You know, it's about time we had another shot at putting Brussels back in its box. 1 think this might be just the issue to do it on. There are several British companies who would suffer . . .'
‘I would like to 'elp your campaigning activities.'
'Oh, really? Talk to Stamper, he's the man. Nothing to do with me.'
‘I 'ave already told 'im that I think you are a great internationalist.'
'Most kind. It really has been a splendid evening.'
'Yes. But I am not a great lover of opera, Prime Minister.' He was massaging his thighs again. 'You would excuse me if I did not stay for the second 'alf?'
'But Stamper here has paid for the tickets . . .'
' 'E 'as paid for the tickets, but I believe I 'ave paid for my freedom.' The bow tie hung limply down his chest.
'Then goodnight to you, Signor Mondelli. It has been a pleasure.'
Stamper offered words of rueful admiration as the bulk of the Italian benefactor disappeared through the door, then Elizabeth Urquhart was with them once more, wafting perfume and muttering something about attending a reception for the cast after the opera was finished. Urquhart heard scarcely a word. His fighting fund had been opened and the wind had started blowing in his direction yet again. But even as he felt the satisfaction wash over him, he dared not forget that winds in politics rarely blow fair for long. He mustn't let this one blow out of control, if he did it would form a whirlwind of destruction, probably his own. But if they blew strong enough, and long enough, perhaps it was possible after all. By March. As the cymbals clashed to announce the commencement of the second act, he sat back in his seat and gazed at the ceiling. The cherub bottoms reminded him of someone, an undergraduate, on a Chesterfield. He couldn't recall her name.
The Leader of the Opposition was an earnest man, the son of a crofting family from the Western Isles of Scotland. He was not noted for his sense of humour, the peat moors of the Western Isles being too dour to encourage frivolity, but even his rivals acknowledged his dedication and hard work. Government Ministers privately acknowledged he made an excellent Leader of the Opposition, while in public providing every assistance to ensure he continued in this well-fitting job. At times it appeared as if the inevitable pressure on him came more from within his own ranks than from his political opponents; there had been several press stories in recent days suggesting that, following the narrow election defeat of the previous year and the arrival of a fresh face in Downing Street, his party was getting restless and his position coming under threat. The stories were vague and thin, tending to feed off each other as much as on hard views, but The Times seemed to have a particularly strong handle on it and had quoted one 'senior party source' as suggesting that 'the party leadership is not a retirement job for losers'. It was more a rumble than a revolution, the polls still pointed to the Opposition having a four-point lead, yet political parties always find difficulty in containing the swirling personal ambitions of its also-rans and, as one editorial had put it, there was no smoke without someone lighting a few matches. So Gordon McKillin had welcomed the opportunity to clear the air on a popular current affairs programme which pitted politician against three leading journalists.
For most of the forty minutes the programme had been uneventful, a little dull even, certainly unsuccessful from the point of view of the producer, whose own job security depended on the regular spillage of someone else's blood. McKillin had parried every thrust with skill and patience - none of the supposed opponents had been identified, he suggested, the real issue was not his leadership but the looming recession which threatened millions of jobs. It was the Prime Minister's job under threat, not his. The story of his troubles had been whipped up by the press, he argued, casting a baleful eye in the direction of Bryan Brynford-Jones, whose journal had published the first and most dramatic report. 'Are you able to name a single one of your sources for this story?' he challenged. The editor, unaccustomed to being in the firing
line, quickly moved the discussion on.
Scarcely two minutes remained before the wrap and, much to the producer's despair, the discussion had become stranded in the marshy fields of the Opposition's environmental credentials. It was Brynford-Jones' turn once again. McKillin smiled generously, as a farmer might eye a prize hog on market day. He was enjoying it.
'Mr McKillin, let me turn in the short time we have left to a more personal question.' Brynford-Jones was toying with some form of brochure. 'You are an elder of the Wee Free Church of Scotland, are you not?'
The politician nodded sagely.
'Now the Church has just published a pamphlet - I have it here - which is entitled "Towards the Twenty First Century: A Moral Guide for Youth". It's fairly wide-ranging and contains, in my view, some excellent prescriptions. But there is one section which intrigued me. On page . . . fourteen, it reaffirms its attitude to homosexuality, which it describes as "a pernicious sin". Do you, Mr McKillin, believe homosexuality is a pernicious sin?'
The politician swallowed. 'I'm not sure this is the right time to get into this sort of complex and difficult discussion. This is, after all, a programme on politics rather than the Church—'
'But it's a relevant question, nonetheless,' Brynford-Jones interrupted. 'A simple one, too. Do you hold homosexuality to be a sin?'
A small bead of sweat had begun to gather in the politician's sideburn, only just perceptible to the professional eye of the producer, who began to brighten.
‘I find it difficult to imagine how to respond to such a broad-ranging question as that on a programme like this—'
'Let me help you, then. Imagine your dreams have been fulfilled and you are Prime Minister, at the Dispatch Box, and I'm the Leader of the Opposition. I'm asking you a direct question. Do you believe homosexuality to be evil, a sin? I think the accepted parliamentary phrase goes: "Since the question is a very simple one, which even he should be able to understand, a simple yes or no will suffice".'
All those present and several million viewers recognized the phrase, McKillin's own, which he had used so frequently in taunting Urquhart at Question Time. It was his own hook. The bead of sweat was beginning to trickle.
'Let me rephrase it, if you like,' the editor encouraged. 'Do you believe your kirk's moral guidance is wrong?'
McKillin struggled for his words. How could he explain, in an atmosphere like this, that it had been his kirk's guidance which since his earliest days had fuelled the desire to help others and to mount his own crusade, giving him a clear personal creed on which he had based his political beliefs and guiding him through the moral cesspits around Westminster, that as an elder he had to accept his kirk's teachings with an open heart and without question or compromise. He understood sin and others' weaknesses and could accept them, but his faith would not permit him to deny them.
‘I am an elder of the Kirk, Mr Brynford-Jones. Of course I accept my church's teachings, as an individual soul. But as a politician such matters can be more complicated—'
'Let me be clear, absolutely clear. You accept your church's edict on this matter?'
'As an individual, I must. But allow me to—'
It was too late. The end credits were already rolling and the signature music beginning to flood the studio. Several million viewers had to struggle to discern Brynford-Jones' sign-off. 'Thank you, Mr McKillin. I'm afraid that's all we have time for. It's been a fascinating forty minutes.' He smiled. 'We are grateful to you.'
Kenny and Mycroft had watched the evening news in silence. It had contained a factual report of McKillin's interview, and also of the volcanic response. The Opposition Leader's office was said to be in the process of issuing a statement of clarification, but it was inevitably too late. Leaders of rival church groups had already opined, gay campaigners had assailed, his own Front Bench transport spokesman had stated boldly that on this issue his leader was utterly, miserably and inexcusably wrong. 'Is there a leadership crisis?' he had been asked. 'There is now,' had been his response.
There was no need for the newspapers to keep their sources anonymous any longer, the protesters were tripping over themselves in the rush to denounce bigotry, medieval morality and cant. Even those who agreed with McKillin had been of no help, a leading anti-gay campaigner being dragged from obscurity to demand in venomous tones that McKillin sack all homosexual MPs in his party or be branded a hypocrite.
Kenny switched off the television. Mycroft sat silently for some time, slumped amongst bean bags piled in front of the screen, while Kenny quietly prepared two mugs of hot coffee, laced with brandy out of miniatures smuggled back from one of his trips. He had seen it all before, the outrage, the alarm, the invective, the inevitable suspicion it brought. He could also see how upset was Mycroft. The older man had seen none of this before, not from this angle.
'God, I'm confused,' Mycroft eventually muttered, biting his lip. He was still staring at the blank screen, unwilling to look directly into Kenny's eyes. 'All this fuss, this talk about rights. I just can't help remembering that odious man Marples dragging along the young boy. Didn't the boy have rights, too?'
'All queers tarred with the same brush, eh?'
'I sometimes ask myself what the hell I'm doing. What does it all mean for my job, for me. You know, I still can't identify, join the club, not when I see men like Marplcs and some of those militants jumping up and down on the screen.'
'I'm gay, David. A queer. A faggot. A fairy queen. Nancy boy. Poof. Call it what you like, that's what I am. You saying you can't identify with me?'
'I'm . . . not very good at this, am I? All my life I've been brought up to conform, to believe that such things are . . . Christ, Kenny, half of me agrees with McKillin. Being a queer is wrong! Yet, and yet . . .' He raised troubled eyes to look directly at his partner. 'I've had more happiness in the last few weeks than I ever thought possible.'
'That's gay, David.'
'Then I suppose I must be, Kenny. I must be. Gay. Because I think I love you.'
'Then forget about all that crap.' Kenny waved angrily in the direction of the television. 'Let the rest of the world go mount their own soap boxes and get splinters in their dicks, we don't have to join them in slagging off everybody else. Love's meant to be inside, private, not open bloody warfare on every street corner.' He looked earnestly at Mycroft. i don't want to lose you, David. Don't go getting guilty on me.'
'If McKillin is right, we may never get to heaven.'
'If heaven's full of people who are so utterly stinking miserable, who can't even accept what they are or what they feel, then I don't think I want to join. So why don't we just stick with what we've got here, you and me, and be happy.'
'For how long, Kenny?'
'For as long as we've got, old love.'
'For as long as they leave us alone, you mean.'
'Some people come to the edge of the cliff and they look over, then run away in fear. They never realize it's possible to fly, to soar away, to be free. They spend their lives crawling along cliff tops without ever finding the courage. Don't spend your life crawling, David.'
Mycroft gave a weak smile. 'I never knew you were poetic' 'Until now I never knew I cared so much for you.' Slowly, Mycroft lifted his coffee mug in salutation. 'A toast, Kenny. To jumping off cliff tops?'
Slowly and with agonizing care, the rifle sight lined up on its target exactly twenty-five yards away, the head of Gordon McKillin, embossed upon one of his old campaign posters. Slowly, steadily, the finger squeezed, and there was a sharp retort as the .22-calibre bullet sped on its way. A perfect hole appeared exactly where the Opposition Leader's mouth had been, before the badly peppered target disintegrated and fluttered like orphaned pieces of tissue to the floor.
'Don't make campaign posters like they used to.'
'Nor Leaders of the Opposition.'
Urquhart and Stamper enjoyed their joke. Directly beneath the dining room of the House of Lords in a low, wood-lined cellar strewn with the piping, conduits and o
ther architectural entrails of the Palace of Westminster, the two men lay side by side in the narrow rifle range where parliamentarians retreat to vent their murderous instincts on paper targets rather than each other. It was where Churchill had practised his gunnery in preparation for the expected German invasion, vowing to fight it personally and to the last from behind the sandbags at the top of Downing Street. And it was where Urquhart practised for Question Time, freed from the inhibitions of Madam Speaker's censorious stare.
'A stroke of luck yours, coming up with that church pamphlet,' Stamper acknowledged somewhat grudgingly, adjusting the leather wrist sling which supported the heavy bolt-action target rifle. He was a much less experienced shot than Urquhart, and had never beaten him.
'The Colquhouns are a rather exotic tribe, members of which descend upon Elizabeth from time to time bearing all sorts of strange gifts. One of them thought I would be interested in the morality of youth, strange man. It wasn't luck, Tim. Simply good breeding.'
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