Party Games

by E J Greenway

  Before he knew what was happening, a deafening sound rang out and an indescribable agony surged through his exhausted body. There may have been two, maybe three shots, he didn’t know, wasn’t sure...he couldn’t see around him, who else was hurt, but he felt himself fall to the floor, hitting his head hard on the corner of his desk. There were voices; faint, incoherent, male and female all competing in short, sharp sentences, their words a jumble of sounds amongst panic. He tried to move, to react to the noise around him, but he had no idea how to even open his eyes. As the voices grew ever more distant, the agony in every inch of his body, spreading down from a fierce ache in his head, made him want to scream out to force them to understand. To understand…but understand what? He couldn’t think coherently. His limbs – could he feel them?

  He felt sudden remorse for the imperfections in his life, how he had treated those close to him, how they had treated him. Would he be missed? Would he be mourned? Would she have regrets?

  A deep blackness began to descend over his jumble of thoughts and it occurred to him he must be slipping into a coma. Perhaps he was dying – this was what it felt like, no bright light guiding you towards eternal life but instead trapping you within a fading mind as death swamped your senses and finally took you from the world. An unexpected surge of the most incomprehensible pain gripped him but he was unable to respond. Death could only be a relief. After a moment all the feeling he had within him began to drift away and he no longer felt scared.

  Then he felt nothing.

  Twenty-Three

  9am

  “Matthew, there’s someone I want you to meet.”

  Matthew Gaines turned as Colin approached him on College Green, panting, Kathryn at his side. She eyed the sheer number of camera crews and reporters with obvious amazement. The large patch of grass opposite the Palace of Westminster, a favourite spot for many political dramas, was unimposing on its own, but occupied by well-known faces of news and politics, speculating to camera, the usual rolling news filler interviews dotted around as leadership fever grew, Colin saw she was a little overwhelmed.

  “Where the hell have you been?” Matthew asked impatiently, the press pack behind him. He drew Colin to one side as he eyed the nervous young woman. “Everyone’s going mad here, they thought you may have bottled it! I’m sorry, you are..?”

  “This is Kathryn, my...fiancée.” Colin smiled, wishing he didn’t feel he needed Matthew’s approval. Zoe Simpson had spotted them and Colin sensed word had got out about her already. Good.

  Matthew blinked, his eyes widening. “Oh, right, I didn’t even know... well nice to meet you, sorry, I missed your name again...”

  “Kathryn.” She replied, shaking his hand.

  Matthew caught Colin’s gaze, flashing him a look suggesting ‘why didn’t you tell me and isn’t she young enough to be your daughter?’ Colin knew what he was thinking. He knew what everyone was thinking. But the time had been right, and now it was also finally time to set the leadership rumours straight. Matthew whispered some last-minute advice and wished him luck.

  The cameras continued rolling and the photographers snapped away as the journalists turned to face him expectantly. Colin kissed Kathryn on the cheek, partly for the cameras, the picture of him with his ‘mystery woman’ which would be splashed across every daily in the morning, partly for reassurance. He squeezed her hand, muttering to her to stand at the front of his Parliamentary party supporters who had gathered behind him.

  He drew breath and took a step forward towards the throng of microphones, his heart pounding, his nerves shredded. Without a lectern and in the cool autumn breeze, storm clouds gathering overhead, he had no idea how he could hold his statement straight, but he gripped the paper tightly as it flapped in the wind.

  “Thank you all for coming, and for the short notice on the venue change. I know it’s cold so I'll be as brief as possible. It is with great regret that I have decided to....”

  Colin paused, looking up. Something wasn’t right. A number of sirens sounded nearby, urgent, becoming louder and louder. The journalists appeared to have stopped listening, distracted by sudden bleeping and calls. Astounded, Colin glanced at Matthew, who shrugged and shook his head before glancing down at his own vibrating BlackBerry. Richmond – the bastard! Colin knew it – he had beaten him to it, bloody resigned before Colin could get the words out, stolen his moment of glory to spite him. Frustrated, and knowing he would be live on television, he opened his mouth to plough on regardless, but a firm hand suddenly rested on his arm.

  “Don’t!” Matthew ordered, pulling him back. There was chaos around them as his media manager looked at him in horror and Fryer moved his bulk over to them faster than his heart could barely manage.

  “Richmond's done it, hasn’t he?” Colin hissed.

  Ashen, Matthew shook his head. “Colin, it’s being reported that Richmond's been shot.”

  “Holy fuck.” Fryer exclaimed. “Shot? Where? By whom? Is he dead?”

  “Err, no news yet, rumour on Twitter is he was shot in his office, don’t know who by. The Norman Shaw buildings and Portcullis House are in lock-down, everyone’s been told to stay in their offices over at the House. Shit. Colin?”

  Colin was staring over Matthew’s shoulder at the commotion on the Green, trying to clear his mind from the impact of such news. He had to think.

  “We need to know what state Richmond’s in.” He said quietly, his gaze still fixed. Zoe Simpson was talking furiously into her mobile while her BBC News 24 colleague spoke to camera. Unconfirmed reports that Richmond had been shot by a journalist...rumours that the gunman may be dead...no confirmation on Richmond’s health...

  “Congratulations, Acting Leader.” Fryer said slyly. “That was bloody close, Colin.”

  For all his insensitivity, Fryer, for once, was right. Colin had been seconds from resignation, but hadn’t carried it through. He was still Deputy Leader of the Conservative Party. Now, he automatically found himself Acting Leader. Richmond would be unconscious if the news was correct, possibly in a coma, perhaps needing major surgery. He could be out for weeks, months even. That’s if he didn’t... if he already hadn’t…Kathryn touched his elbow and he turned to her briefly. Matthew was waiting for a decision, waiting for him to lead.

  “You’re my media advisor here, Matthew, so now would be a good time to advise.” Colin muttered tersely.

  Matthew drew breath. “You’re at a crossroads here and the reality is you have to make a decision right now based on the little information we have. You can either resign, plunge the party into chaos as it searches for an interim leader for however long is needed, which let’s face it will probably by Cheeser, or you can put that resignation away and step up to the plate, show you can lead in a time of crisis, prove all those critics wrong. Be statesman-like. This lot are going to barrage you with questions any minute, demand you make some sort of statement, and we don’t have time to dither. Decide and bloody fast.”

  “It’s a no-brainer.” Fryer said, but Colin turned from him to Kathryn.

  “What should I do?” He asked her quietly. “What do you want me to do?”

  Fryer snorted, rolling his eyes. Colin ignored him.

  Kathryn put her lips close to his ear. “You should lead, the party needs you now. I know you better than anyone, and this is your chance. I’ll stand by you.”

  “You were literally a second away from resignation, and now here you are, in charge.” Matthew said. “You need your mind to be focussed quickly so you can display absolute authority. Suddenly, however temporarily, you’re going to have an army of staff at your disposal all tugging you in different ways while CCHQ will be in chaos. This has never happened before and people won’t know what to do. I am going to be frank with you here, Colin – don’t fuck it up.”

  But, Colin thought, this wasn’t how it was all meant to be. Somehow he felt cheated, angry he had been denied the chance to let rip at Rodney then smear his face in the dirt. Now the bloody man
would receive everyone’s sympathy, simply because he had got himself shot.

  “They’ve just confirmed Fergus McDermott as the gunman.” Fryer returned from a brief conversation with a correspondent. “And he’s dead, seems to have shot himself or been shot by police, they don’t know. Richmond’s been taken to St Thomas’ – he’s still alive but unconscious, sounds serious. Eye witness reports are starting to come in, Simpson says. Someone else was injured, don’t know who yet.”

  “My God.” Colin gasped. There would be a police investigation; perhaps Rodney Richmond had more skeletons in his cupboard than just Rosie Lambert. McDermott may be dead, but whatever his motive, Colin vowed to uncover it. “You’ll be my PPS, won’t you, Matthew? From now?”

  “Of course.” Matthew replied. Fryer growled.

  “Mr Scott, will you be making a statement?”

  The rain had begun to fall, large drops emptying from a blanket of impenetrable, bland cloud. The traffic along Abingdon Street had come to a stand-still, one long jam trailing around Parliament Square. The anticipation of the media now began to privately excite Colin and he longed to indulge himself with a smile. The initial shock had gone and somewhere inside his gut his resolve was building and he felt empowered. He handed his resignation statement to Matthew, ordering him to shred it, as one by one the supporters he had gathered urged him to seize his opportunity.

  The microphones were back under his nose amongst a muddle of urgent questions from reporters hungry for reaction. His body language would be just as important as his oration; the authoritative raising of the eyebrow, the concerned yet controlled frown - a leader’s face determined to hold the party together in a time of crisis, the rock to which the most historically successful political party in Europe would cling. It had turned against him once, but now it needed him. How suddenly fortunes change. If Rodney Richmond had thought he was good at the media game, Colin Scott would prove he could be even better.

  *****

  9.15am

  His second cup of coffee that morning sat untouched on his desk, the dark liquid cooling, leaving a thick stain around the white rim. It didn’t matter. The coffee was nothing and the news was everything. The day’s newspapers, strewn across his office table, were out of date and unimportant. Anthea’s victory would be quickly forgotten and Harvey wouldn’t scrape so much as a mention except as a late-night afterthought on Radio 4.

  Colin Scott was on television, the interim leader, making a statement to camera, his pale complexion flushed and his usually high voice steady and precise. He was trying to sound dignified in the chaos, but Tristan interpreted this as coldness, the same calculated manner he had used when telling him he was out to ruin him. He had watched Colin on the news moments earlier, poised and ready with that air of self-importance, kissing some young woman, a girl, when the report suddenly cut away to wobbly images of an ambulance arriving outside Portcullis House. Colin had been about to denounce Richmond, now here he was, telling the press pack that he would hold a press conference as soon as there was definite news on Richmond’s health, and his heart went out to the man, and his family, and he would be in his thoughts and prayers...

  “...but I can confirm that I will be Acting Leader of the Opposition, and of the Conservative Party, for as long as I am needed.”

  Big of him, Tristan thought. He would call it a selfless act, when Tristan knew that Colin’s own callous ambition would be his only priority.

  “Shit.” Tristan said to himself. “Shit!” He cupped his face in his hands and thought of Anthea. They had arrived together, minutes before the shooting, and he knew she would now be holed up in her office down the corridor. His own staff hadn’t been able to get into the building, so he was alone. Aware he should go to her, he wearily rose to his feet, not knowing what he should say or do. Minutes ago everyone was expecting a grand exit from the Shadow Cabinet, but now the political landscape had changed, possibly irrevocably, by an event even the shrewdest pundit couldn’t have predicted. The party would enter uncharted waters and Tristan could only see turbulence ahead.

  *****

  Jeremy didn’t sound like him at all, his voice a quiver of barely suppressed panic on the phone, but gradually Anthea began to hear more of the truth. She couldn’t quite take in what he was saying, it was as if her body was ahead of her brain.

  “Clare was hit over the head, she was knocked out but it’s just concussion, thank God. Apparently Rodney saved her. But Rodney – he had to be revived at the scene, and although they got him breathing again he’s in a bad way, a complete mess, but he’s in the best hands.” Jeremy was camped over in the Whips Office, his office in Norman Shaw currently a no-go. Anthea sensed he was trying to hold it together, yet there was nothing comforting to be said. “Linda’s there - they’re trying to stabilise him before surgery, but I don’t know exactly where on his body he was shot, and it sounds like he has a serious head injury. . Anthea, he might…the next few hours are critical. But we’re playing it down and simply waiting like the rest of the world for more concrete news, whatever that might be. Once he’s out of surgery, there will be some sort of press conference.”

  In a complete mess…next few hours are critical. It was as if the very air she breathed had been ripped from her as she stared, numbly, at News 24. Jeremy was trying to remain the calm Party Chairman in a crisis, wittering on about statements and correct procedure when Anthea knew all he would want to do was break down in personal grief.

  BREAKING NEWS: Bulletin Political Editor Fergus McDermott dies at scene. Later it would be revealed that, convinced Richmond was dead, McDermott had turned the gun on himself before armed police could swoop in, his last bullet burying itself inside his skull.

  “It’s all my fault.” Anthea said weakly. “McDermott – it’s all my fault.”

  “No, it certainly is not.” Jeremy’s voice hardened. “None of us knew that the guy was that unstable, you did what you did for good reason. Don’t blame yourself, Rodney wouldn’t want that.”

  “We’re going to spend a lot of time wondering what Rodney would want, aren’t we, Jeremy?” Anthea felt the well of emotion rising up into her chest and behind her eyes as Jeremy explained that he had spoken to Deborah, but she was so distraught she could barely communicate, except to give the police a statement. Robert Williams had been far more staid in his response, agreeing they had to do whatever they could to keep Colin Scott at bay until Rodney was well. Even Robert, ever the realist, was unable to comprehend anything else.

  “Are you watching Colin?” Anthea’s throat was dry. She felt sick at the sight of him and even watching him in two dimensions she could see the delight behind his steely expression.

  “Yes, he’ll be loving every minute of it. If only he could have bloody resigned...” Jeremy said, confirming her thoughts. “My office is arranging for me to speak to him within the hour, but things might have changed by then. I’m going to the hospital shortly, I can get out from this end of the estate.”

  She nodded, as if he could see, her voice now a croak. “But Jeremy, I should come down, I should…”

  “Please Anthea, not yet, it’ll be pandemonium over there. I’ll call you again soon I promise. Obviously Colin will need to hold a press conference at CCHQ, although Rodney’s alive, so…” Jeremy tailed off, an awkward moment in an uncomfortable conversation.

  “There will be an emergency Shadow Cabinet meeting later, won’t there?” Anthea felt herself joining in with him, going through the motions, discussing practicalities as if Rodney had simply taken an unscheduled holiday.

  Jeremy then uttered the words they had hoped never to hear – what happens next would be up to Colin, within the rules. That was if such rules existed for Opposition. Nobody seemed to know. A minute later, the call was over. Anthea was left alone. Peter was elsewhere on the estate, unable to get to her, and all she could do was watch the news like the rest of the country, feeling helpless, feeling hopeless. She closed her eyes and remembered the taste of his l
ips, the look in his eyes as he begged her to love him, the ache in her heart as she walked away, her anger at him for not consulting her about resigning...

  “Anthea?”

  Anthea looked towards the door to see Tristan staring at her, obviously worried.

  “Oh God, Tris!” The sight of her lover overwhelmed her and she stood for the first time since hearing the news. Tristan held her and she clung to him, the reassurance of him a temporary comfort. She hadn’t expected the next shock, the first grainy image of Rodney being wheeled on a trolley towards the ambulance, intrusively taken from a distance on a mobile, his head covered in blood and a paramedic pumping oxygen into his lungs.

  “Right, that’s it, I can’t just sit here, I just can’t!” Anthea suddenly moved away from Tristan and grabbed her bag and coat.

  Tristan glanced at the image on the television then back at Anthea in alarm. “I know it’s hard, but you’ve got to wait here, we’ve been told...”

  “You can wait here if you like, but I’ve got to get to the hospital!” She dashed out of the office, her face burning, and went towards the lift. An armed police officer guarded the stairwell and stopped her with a forthright wave of the hand.