by E J Greenway
“Are you having a good birthday, Mr Richmond, and have you received a card from Colin Scott?”
“Mr Richmond, will you…”
Crap, he’s going over to them! Clare nearly twisted her ankle dashing over to her boss, who had wandered into the bloodthirsty gathering and was being verbally mauled by one of the hacks from the Engager. She squeezed herself in between the scrum, desperately trying to drive Rodney back but wondering whether she could actually get out alive.
“Look, we are focusing on winning the vote tomorrow night, which has important implications not just for the future of the Cornish people but of the entire country.” Rodney smiled insincerely, his voice calm. Clare could see how tired he was, and distracted, but the journalists were relentless as he batted away their questions with another forced smile before she ushered him towards the car.
“Ouch! What the hell?” Rodney growled as he sat himself square on the upward prongs of Clare’s hairbrush. With an apologetic murmur his Press Secretary felt herself glowing as he handed her the brush. Sniffing in distain as he fastened his seatbelt, an exasperated frown etched across his lightly moisturised face, Rodney glanced out of the window to see the unimpressed press pack peering through to the back of the car.
Clare sighed. “I didn’t think there would be quite so many of them, to be honest.”
“But what did they all expect, me to accuse my arsehole of a deputy of publicly stuffing me like a Christmas bloody turkey?”
“They’re getting excited, I’m afraid.” Clare said as Fred accelerated a little too quickly from the hospital car park, nearly knocking over a local journalist. “He’s got 19 of the 20 names he needs, so PA is now reporting.”
“We’ll say nothing else for now, but we’d best plan a statement in case it hits the fan before the vote and he jumps ship.” Rodney thumped a pile of policy papers onto his lap. “Get Debs in on this one. Get her on speakerphone.”
Deborah was in bullish mood, informing them in no uncertain terms that Colin Scott had been frozen out of Shadow Cabinet circles and pretty much nobody was talking to him.
“Oh yes and Sharkey has been on, he says he can get his people to bang heads together if needs be.” She said with a small cynical laugh. “Although we’re watching him closely, Scott’s still putting it about that a deal with him could still happen.”
Rodney glanced at Clare, who felt a little green next to him. She didn’t travel particularly well.
“Well that’s big of Steven.” He said. “At least he’s firmly on side for now, the last thing we need is his supporters making unhelpful noises, who knows who that might encourage. Look, I need Valerie to clear the diary for 4pm.”
Clare swallowed hard and rummaged in her bag for a mint. She eyed the passenger window, but knew it was locked shut for security, so took a deep, shaky breath and calmed herself.
“Right.” Deborah said slowly over the speakerphone. “Does this mean...”
“Get Colin in, I think it’s time we had a chat. Play it down though, if you need to.”
Clare found a humbug and eyed Rodney worriedly at this news. It wasn’t a good idea, but her boss looked determined.
“Are you sure about this?” Deborah said slowly.
“I’m positive. It can’t get much worse, Debs, and maybe Colin will be reasonable. You and Clare leak it to the usual friendlies.” Rodney carried on before she could protest. “Oh, has Anthea called, by the way? To offer support?”
Deborah hesitated. “No she hasn’t, sorry. Oh, and Rodney – happy birthday.”
Happy birthday. In the midst of everything since that morning Rodney had almost forgotten it was his birthday at all, never mind remembering to have a happy one. As birthdays went, he said to Clare when the call with Deborah had ended, it had to rate as one of the worst ever, except for the one when he fractured his arm falling from a swing when he was eight. Even so, a trip to hospital could certainly give the hacks something else to write about and it may even be a preferable experience to the showdown which was to come.
Although Clare tried to gently suggest that the statement they had hurriedly produced be refined, she could tell Rodney barely heard her. He glanced out of the car window as it sped along the M3, curious faces from passing vehicles occasionally looking in his direction. The pile of work needing his attention remained firmly on his knee as he fixed his gaze on the shedding trees as they whizzed past, a blur of browns and oranges with their branches bending forlornly in the wind.
Eventually Rodney let out a deep sigh, rubbing his brown eyes and settling down to read as the car raced him back up to London. Clare dialled up the press office for a Scott update, while Fred tuned into Radio 4.
Sixteen
2pm
“I’m sorry, but I’ve already told you my intentions and I’m not about to change my mind now. You might as well give up because there’s nothing you can say to persuade me – Rodney is the best person to lead this party and all this leadership talk isn’t doing anyone any good.”
“Are you sure you can’t be persuaded?” The campaign manager asked coldly, jutting out his chin threateningly and sizing up his prey. “I’m only doing it out of the interests of the party, and if you knew what was good for you you’d make sure you were my number twenty.”
“I’m not listening to this, I’ve got a team to manage.” The Shadow Education Secretary moved towards the door as he checked his watch, but David Fryer wasn’t about to let the enigmatic Bartholomew Phillips wriggle out of his clutches just yet. He was a desperate man, determined to prove to his potential boss that he had the balls to get the number of nominations needed. It was one more. Just one more.
Snorting, Fryer moved as quickly as his well proportioned frame would allow and smacked the door shut with his ample arm, leaning hard against it as Barty took a step backwards in shock. “Where was I? Oh yes, persuasion. I was going to talk promotion with you, Barty, but you’ve left me no choice.”
Barty’s eyes narrowed but Fryer returned his stare, ignoring the slight unease he felt at sensing that perhaps the man considered the ‘dimwit’ of the Shadow Cabinet wasn’t actually afraid of him.
“I mean, it’s what everyone suspects about you, isn’t it? You and Patrick Hornby? Oh I’m sure he wouldn’t mind, being a blogger and all, if a few stories accidentally slip out, as it were?”
Barty’s jaw slackened, his middle-aged yet not unattractive face creasing in exasperation. Fryer could have jumped for joy as a small smile tugged at the corner of his podgy mouth. Not so sure now, are you Phillips?
“See?” Fryer said calmly, moving his stocky frame so it covered the door. “Maybe we should have a drink, talk some more…”
Suddenly the hairs stood up at the back of his perspiring neck. Phillips was smiling – bloody smiling; his mouth almost puckered as his lip curled. It wasn’t a defiant smile of hate, more…well…Fryer wasn’t quite sure.
“David, are you trying to get me drunk?” Barty asked in mischievous tone, cocking his head to one side. “And if I didn’t know you better, well, I might suggest this harshness towards Patrick and myself is only a poor attempt at hiding what may be a little jealousy. Is there a green-eyed monster lurking there?”
Fryer began gasping for air, as if Barty had pinned him up by his throat and was throttling him. His words sounded forced from his gullet but Barty’s naughty smile fixed itself to his face.
“I don’t know what the bloody hell you’re trying to say about me, but…”
“David, David, calm down. It’s alright, I quite understand. If it were true about Patrick and myself – and I’m not for a minute saying it is – I feel very flattered that you might feel upset, but also a little concerned you felt you had to use political means to get at me.” Barty reached out and brushed Fryer’s jacket lapel slowly with the back of his hand. “Just a bit of dust.”
Fryer barely heard him as his heart thumped hard in his ears and his blood pressure soared. He didn’t know what to do, but th
e urge to get out of that office and run all the way to the lift overwhelmed him so much he thought he would pass out, but he stood far too close for him to open the door. Barty feigned a confused frown as Fryer reached behind his back for the door handle, every inch of his face a shock of scarlet.
“Oh David there’s no need to be ashamed.” Barty said calmly, biting his lip.
“I’m not ashamed, I…well what I mean is…look, don’t you ever talk about this meeting to anyone, d’you hear?”
Tutting disappointedly Barty leant against the wall, cradling the side of his head in his hand and examining his terrified colleague through an inquisitive, yet sensual stare.
“But I didn’t think we were done with talking,” he purred. “It’s not good to keep things bottled up inside, and all this rage you seem to have needs to be teased out of you. I can be a very good listener; one to one, man to man. Very good indeed.”
“You are sick, Phillips! Bloody SICK!” Deciding on a sudden course of action, Fryer shoved Barty backwards then grappled with the door handle, his plan and his self respect shattered. He tried to make a casual exit but his legs were carrying him faster than he could consciously help. If he had paused and listened he might have heard his colleague laughing so hard he nearly pulled a muscle, before making a well-timed phone call to his lover.
*****
London Chronicle – West End Final
RIVALS GEAR UP FOR TORY BATTLE
Rumours that the Tory Deputy Leader Colin Scott is about to launch his leadership campaign were all but confirmed today as one of his most prominent backers in Parliamentary circles, David Fryer, was unceremoniously sacked as Tory Deputy Chief Whip for ‘flouting his position’. This is the second crisis in a matter of weeks to hit the beleaguered Conservative Whips Office, following the sacking of Tristan Rivers as Chief Whip during the Shadow Cabinet reshuffle.
In a further development, Mr Rivers is said to be considering standing for the Tory leadership himself as a ‘stalking horse’ candidate, in order to precipitate a crisis which could potentially see Mr Scott ousting Rodney Richmond as leader by the New Year. Under the Conservative leadership rules a candidate requires the support of 15% of the Parliamentary Party, to be announced by the Chairman of the 1922 Committee, a powerful group of MPs which represents the interests of Tory MPs. Allies of the Party Leader are privately saying that any support for Mr Rivers would really be support for Mr Scott, with the Deputy Leader working the strings of those willing to defy the leadership – an accusation hotly denied by the higher echelons of the Scott camp.
In a speech due to be delivered tonight to a private dinner of the Right Wing Conservative No Way Forward Group, Mr Scott is to say in a personal attack on Mr Richmond that the continuing downturn in Tory fortunes is due to the Party Leader’s ‘obsession with trivial issues’. He will also tell the influential gathering that there has been a lack of development in key policy areas, provoking further outrage from the leadership at a time when Mr Richmond is desperately seeking to stamp his authority.
However, a spokesman for Mr Richmond said that he is looking forward to seeing off the Cornwall Devolution Bill when it receives Second Reading tomorrow and insists the policy timetable is on course. One Shadow Cabinet Minister and Richmond loyalist has hinted heavily that a private showdown between Mr Richmond and Mr Scott may be inevitable ahead of the vote, calling Mr Scott a ‘conceited traitor’.
3.50pm
Tristan emerged from the strategy meeting with ‘Team Scott’ with a thumping headache and a very heavy conscience. He had felt like the biggest deceitful loser in the office, and judging by his company that had taken some doing.
“Fryer knows, doesn’t he?” Tristan asked Colin frostily once the meeting was done and they were alone. Every muscle in his face felt tense. “About the blackmail? I can see it in his face, you’ve told him everything.”
Colin’s eyes narrowed. “Blackmail? Ugly word. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Anyway you – sorry, we – still only have nineteen names.” Tristan rose to leave. “Neither of us can stand with that. I’m not sure that asking colleagues to abstain over Cornwall as a show of solidarity against Richmond is such a shrewd move either. Bronwyn is getting tough – you saw how she was with David. The Party could win this one then Richmond will be on a high...”
“Tristan, Tristan,” Colin interrupted in a softer voice, producing a thin smile and placing a hand on his colleague’s arm. Although on the surface it was more of a friendly gesture than a grip, Tristan still felt a shiver ripple down his back. “I’ve been thinking about names. As you know yourself, people are persuadable, once they know their options. It’s amazing how flexible colleagues can be. There’s always another way to secure the twentieth vote.”
Tristan’s breath caught in his throat. Colin was staring straight at him with steely grey eyes but with an expression of mockery which cut him to the quick, his tone far more terrifying than simply allowing Fryer, that human bull-dog of his, to crush his fingers.
“I’ve been urged to go it alone, but really, Tristan, it’s for your own good you declare, so it’s for your own good we get that twentieth nomination.” Colin closed in on him, still smiling coldly. “Without that, then I no longer have use for you and you’ll be forced to explain yourself…well, I don’t really need to go over the consequences of such revelations, it wouldn’t be fair.” The blazing hatred in Tristan’s eyes was more satisfying to Colin than Tristan would ever know.
“Now, if you will excuse me,” The Deputy said with an air of finality as he checked his watch, “I have to be in far less pleasant company…”
“What have you done, Colin?”
Colin blinked and feigned shock at Tristan’s sudden outburst.
“I haven’t done anything.” He retorted smugly. “But nothing in politics is written in stone, you know that. I just needed to inject a little...life into my campaign.”
His anger growing, Tristan roughly grabbed Colin by the arm and tugged him round, desperate for answers. “Ok then what have you got David to do, then? If you’ve done anything you promised not to do, I’ll…”
“You’ll what? You don’t want to back down now, the press have got you standing already. Think how stupid you’d look to all your colleagues if you suddenly changed your mind, having let the story run without a formal denial?” Colin said coolly, his eyes darting between Tristan’s flushed face and his arm. “I do not think, Rivers, you are in any position to raise your voice to me or to threaten me. I am in charge here, not you, you do not tell me what I can and cannot do, and I will do whatever is necessary to achieve the desired result.”
Tristan released his grip, a strange underlying sympathy for the Deputy’s delusions. The man appeared to have nothing but malice behind his hardened stare.
“Are you really ready to sell what little soul you have and attempt to politically assassinate the one man who has a realistic chance of winning us an election?” Tristan asked profoundly.
Colin simply laughed, walking from his office into the corridor. Turning just beyond the door he raised an eyebrow contemptuously. “You know my answer to that.”
“Tell me what you’ve done,” Tristan urged breathlessly. “Tell me what David’s done to get that last nomination.” His thoughts swam with worry for Anthea but Colin remained determinedly distant except for an upwards tug of the mouth.
“You promised you wouldn’t! She was to stay out of your foolish bloody games!”
Colin rolled his eyes impatiently. “I’m going to be late for my summons so I don’t have time for your whinging.” He walked away towards David Fryer who was waiting by the lift, an unsubtle grin across his broad face.
“Some might say we’re pushing him that little bit too far.” Fryer snorted as the lift descended.
Colin flashed him a disbelieving look. “He’s merely being the idiot I had hoped, and he’s already gone crying to Cheeser, his tail firmly between his legs.” He mut
tered coldly.
“I doubt it’s just his tail between his legs these days.” Fryer said with a salacious smile.
Colin smirked knowingly. “Quite. Now if I were to get her, now what a lovely little victory that would be. The one thing she wants to protect even more than Richmond, or Rivers, is her own reputation.”
As the lift reached ground level the two men stepped out and marched speedily across the modern, leafy atrium of Portcullis House. It was one of the most open and bustling places on the Parliamentary estate, perfect for a grand gesture, to be noticed by as many people that mattered as possible. He felt more than a few heavy gazes upon him, helping fire him up, perhaps like the crowd might do for the underdog at the start of a Wimbledon match.
The Party Chairman was there, lean and curly-haired, chatting quietly to Derek Bradbury as they loitered by the cafe. Suddenly, everything that had been said at the graveyard seared through Colin’s brain and clouded his thoughts; wanting to hold the girl he had become so fond of but wanting to kill her where she cowered to shut her up, the feeling of sheer rage yet hopelessness as she told him with wide, innocent eyes that she wanted to keep the baby, but had simply not understood the consequences…
Colin caught Jeremy’s eye but kept his expression incredulous. The irrepressible guilt, the inconvenient remorse and shame of having failed as a husband, his own emotional impotency towards the few women in his life since and now his utter failure towards his unborn child, all consumed him. “You’re going to end up a lonely, friendless old man...you’ll finally see what a complete narcissistic bastard you’ve become!” Jeremy’s words rang in his ears. Did Jeremy now know, had Linda told him? His old university friend was giving nothing away.
Fryer was talking about the formal declaration speech roughly ten different people appeared to be co-authoring.