Polls Apart

by Clare Stephen-Johnston

  “Are you saying he was violent?” Libby asked.

  “To my mother, mainly, yes.”

  “I’m sorry,” Libby replied, quickly echoed by Anna. “That must have been awful.”

  “Not really awful compared to being forced to kill your abusive stepfather,” Sandra quipped, unable to suppress the hardened side of her that had come to thrive as she struggled to put her past behind her.

  But Libby and Anna no longer minded the harsh remarks. They at once understood what was eating at Sandra.

  “Well, now that explains why you’ve come to be such a sour face,” joked Libby. Anna drew breath in anticipation of Sandra’s reply. But rather than take offence, she threw her head back and laughed.

  “You’ve got me,” she said.

  “Well,” Libby continued. “Now that we’ve shared our mutually miserable past lives, maybe we can conclude that, actually, we’ve all done all right considering.”

  “We’re survivors,” said Sandra, still smiling.

  “No,” corrected Anna. “We’re fighters.” She closed her eyes and sank a little further down in her chair, letting out a long yawn.

  “Sounds like you’re a tired fighter,” Libby said putting a protective hand on her sister’s arm. “Are you okay?”

  “Yes,” she replied wearily. “I could just use a couple of days off to catch up on some sleep but I guess that’s not going to happen.”

  “Make sure you take it easy then,” said Libby, her voice full of concern. “You’re going to have to pace yourself if you want to see this campaign through.”

  16

  Williams and Davis Go Head-to-Head in Live TV Debate

  Thursday, 30th April, 2009, UK Newswire – Prime Minister Kelvin Davis is set to take on Social Democrat leader Richard Williams in a live presidential-style televised debate this evening.

  The head-to-head between the political rivals is the first of its kind in British politics and follows criticism from both sides of the House this week over negative campaigning.

  Social Democrat MP Graham Hollsworth, told UK Newswire that he was “ashamed and embarrassed” over the mud-slinging that has been a feature of the election contest.

  “We should be busy setting out our policies to the British people, but instead we’re enduring week after week of tit-for-tat tabloid tales which do our cause absolutely no good at all.”

  Alliance backbencher Nigel Smillie said campaigning was now “descending to the depths of smear and counter smear”.

  He added: “These lurid tales hitting the headlines each week take away from the real issues that are so important to voters: health, crime and the economy. This TV debate is an opportunity to set out our stall on these matters and get back to a positive campaign.”

  Richard glanced at the clock and realised the end game was in sight with only ten more minutes of debating time left. Despite the make-up artist’s furious attempts to mop and powder his brow between ad breaks, he could feel the sweat breaking through again and just hoped it wouldn’t form into droplets. More than Kelvin’s biting put-downs over the SDP’s’s taxation policies, Richard feared the sensation of a trickle running from his forehead with the inevitable, and humiliating, drop onto his shirt collar. For those beads of sweat would undo any good he had managed to achieve in the last forty-five minutes of verbal duelling with Kelvin. They would tell the world that he felt out of his depth; that he didn’t know if he was ready to be Prime Minister or not. That he was just hoping, and praying, he could measure up to the expectations of a nation that needed to feel good about itself again.

  The presenter, Giles Flaxon, was trying to get Kelvin to wind up his rather lame explanation of public spending cuts under the Alliance Party before they moved on to what would be the closing section of the debate: leadership qualities.

  Richard smirked along with the rest of the studio audience as Kelvin continued unabashed while Giles repeatedly tried to head him off.

  “If I could just stop you there,” Giles had begun. “Now we really must move on…”

  “Thank you, Mr Davis, but there are other issues we must cover…” Nothing worked, until Giles finally boomed. “That’s it, Mr Davis. We’re moving on.”

  Whether Kelvin had actually had to cut himself short or whether, conveniently, Giles’s final interjection had coincided with him actually finishing talking was unclear. All Richard knew was they were into the last and potentially most hazardous section of the debate.

  Giles turned back to the cameras and began his introduction: “It’s been one of the dirtiest campaigns in political history with claims and counter-claims appearing in the tabloids on an almost daily basis. And the finger of blame for that has been pointed firmly towards the two men who stand either side of me now.”

  Giles switched then to stand side-on to the cameras and addressed the two candidates directly.

  “How are voters to see you as leaders when you’re covered head-to-toe in mud? The question goes to Kelvin Davis first.”

  “Well, this suit came back from the dry-cleaners only yesterday,” Kelvin joked, pretending to check himself over, “so I don’t believe I am covered in mud.” He was forced to move on quickly when only a couple of his own staff among the audience laughed. “Tabloids will dig up their scandalous tales,” he continued. “That’s the nature of the beast and there’s very little we can do about it. But if there’s any mud thrown at me then I just brush it off because I have more important things to worry about – like running a country.”

  “So are you implying that you weren’t aware of some of the stories that your own press team have been accused of planting in the media?”

  “If you’re asking me did I plant a story in the press that Richard Williams had left his wife then I can tell you no, I didn’t. Richard did that all by himself.” Kelvin chuckled, this time more heartily backed by a small gathering of hard-core Alliance supporters towards the front of the studio.

  Richard raised his eyebrows to show his displeasure at the remark before steeling himself for his turn to come.

  “Richard Williams,” Giles said turning to face him. “What’s your opinion of the dirty tricks used in this campaign. Are you proud to be associated with them?”

  “No, I’m not proud to be involved in a campaign which has been, at times, overshadowed by personal issues. In fact, there have been many points over the last few weeks where I’ve had cause to question myself and my actions. What I can tell you though is that at no stage have I directed anyone in my team to dig up muck on Kelvin Davis, or anyone else in the Alliance Party for that matter.”

  The audience was totally hushed and Richard glanced back at Giles to indicate he was finished, but the presenter was simply nodding and obviously waiting for him to go on. Richard and Henry had spent hours planning for the debate the evening before, but Henry had been emphatic that answers about personal issues should be short and rehearsed. Sticking to that point, his final words to Richard before he stepped on stage were: “Don’t go off script.” But that was exactly what he was about to have to do, because a room full of people, along with the millions watching at home were waiting for him to explain himself. Richard rarely prayed, but in that moment he couldn’t help but offer up a few silent words. “Please God. Let me say the right thing.”

  He swallowed hard and began. “Much has been said in the press about me and my wife recently. Some of it was true, some outright lies. The full truth is, of course, that we did separate for a short period. This was a decision on my part, which I will regret for the rest of my life.”

  End it there, Richard was urging himself, but the voice inside wasn’t finished yet.

  “My father was a very good man. Not a successful man, but an honest one. He worked hard every day of his life and he had no desire to be wealthy or grand in any way. Yet he told me several times as a boy that one day I would do an important job – and one that would change people’s lives. Over the last few months and weeks I have had to ask many questions
of myself about the kind of man I would like to be. Firstly, I recognised that to be a good leader, I needed to be a good husband and son. Because only in realising your own potential as a human being, can you help others realise theirs. But, I promise you this; I’m ready now. I have put my house in order, and I am ready to lead. I have the determination to bring us out of debt and into recovery and I have the single-mindedness to never waver from the task in hand. Let me worry about my personal responsibilities, and let us all focus on the fight we now have to make this nation great again.”

  Richard glanced back at Giles again who opened his mouth to thank the candidates but was drowned out by the loud clapping and cheering which was now resonating from every corner of the studio. Many of the audience were on their feet, save the hard-core Alliance supporters who remained firmly rooted to their chairs with arms folded. Giles began shouting over the cheers so he could wrap up the programme and, as the studio lights faded to darkness and the credits began to role, Richard could feel a small bead of sweat make its way from the side of his forehead to the collar of his shirt.

  In all the years she had worked in journalism, Marie had never been summoned to a venue quite as preposterous as this one. She had actually laughed when Joy first suggested meeting on a bench by the duck pond at St James’s Park. Wrongly, she had assumed she must be joking. But, in fact, Joy was that paranoid. Whereas before they had met in darkened corners of coffee bars, Joy had felt even that would be too risky in case she was recognised. Instead, she had chosen a bench tucked away from the main thoroughfare where, surely, no member of the Social Democratic Party or press could spot them.

  Even worse, they were meeting over lunch so Marie found herself sitting on a park bench, wearing a raincoat, eating a sandwich and waiting for a contact. The only thing missing from this spy thriller was the code word.

  Marie checked her watch. They had agreed to meet at one o’clock and it was already five-past, prompting her to wonder whether Joy had changed her mind. She peeled back the seal of her sandwich pack and told herself she might as well stay for another ten minutes to eat her lunch and figure out what she was going to tell Damian if she had to go back to the office empty-handed. He made it painfully clear to her earlier that morning that he expected her to deliver. Why the political team weren’t coming in for the same kind of pressure she didn’t know, but it only went to show that there was very little about this campaign that had actually been about politics. So Marie had been faced with the choice of going out and getting something, or just sitting back and taking the consequences. She had been tempted to do the latter, with the half-hearted hope that Damian might even fire her. But, when it came down to it, she couldn’t bear to fail.

  It was Joy’s red hair that caught her attention first, followed by the bottle-green coat. If she had wanted to go unnoticed, Marie thought, that wasn’t the way to go about it. But Joy had chosen the venue well. In the fifteen minutes she’d already been sitting there, Marie hadn’t seen a single passer-by, which made her wonder if this was the sort of thing the woman she was meeting did regularly. She certainly had form for shock tip-offs, that was for sure.

  Joy strutted purposefully towards the bench, glancing around her before she sat down and examined Marie’s sandwich enviously. “Damn, I was in such a rush I forgot to pick up a sandwich on the way over.”

  “Here,” Marie tossed the second half of her lunch into Joy’s hand. “I had a bacon roll earlier so I’m not that hungry,” she lied.

  Joy looked like a child on Christmas morning – a mixture of surprise and wonder at this kind gesture.

  “Well, aren’t you a sweetie,” she said, before hungrily biting into her donated lunch.

  “You mentioned on the phone you had something for me relating to Richard Williams,” Marie hurried to the point. Joy had a bit of a reputation in the newsrooms as being someone who enjoyed talking about herself for long periods before giving the information the journalist was actually looking for, so Marie wanted to head her off before she started.

  Joy frowned. She didn’t like being hurried so she continued to chew slowly on her sandwich while she looked out over the duck pond.

  “I do love it here,” she said, oblivious to Marie rolling her eyes next to her. “When I first moved to London I missed Central Park so much until I found this place. There’s so much space, you can just forget the city around you for a while and be somewhere else.”

  Joy continued to stare dreamily ahead, but Marie was in no mood for polite conversation – she was under way too much pressure to forget her reality.

  “I need to have a front-page splash on Richard Williams by the end of today, Joy. That means I’m a bit pushed for time.”

  Joy finished the final corner of her sandwich before turning to look at Marie.

  “You may have noticed there’s an Alliance MP called Lizzie Ancroft who’s always having a dig at Anna – which bugged the hell out of me when I worked for her. But you just had to mention her name to Anna and she’d get all fired up; because, apparently, she and Richard once had a thing going on.”

  “While he was seeing Anna?” Marie asked breathlessly.

  “No, before,” Joy replied. “But the thing is, Lizzie is sadly harbouring a dark secret, in that she used to have a bit of a cocaine habit.”

  “I see,” Marie said tersely, wishing Joy would get to the point. “Did she take it with Richard Williams?”

  “You could say that,” Joy said, casually brushing some crumbs from her lap.

  “Well, did she or didn’t she, Joy? I’m going to need something concrete here.”

  “Lizzie is about to be made aware that I am in possession of a picture in which she can clearly be seen at a function in a London hotel snorting cocaine. Richard Williams was also at the same party that night and can just be made out in the corner of the image.”

  “Did Richard know of her taking cocaine? And has anyone ever seen him taking it?”

  “I doubt Richard would be colourful enough to try that kind of thing,” Joy snorted. “But he was there when she was doing it – and that’s all you need to make a sensational headline, right?”

  “Do you have the picture?”

  “I do,” said Joy, “and you can look at it, but it’s going to cost you if you want to use it.”

  “How much?”

  “Make me an offer,” Joy smiled.

  “Let me see the picture then and I’ll talk to Damian.”

  With that, Joy triumphantly plucked an envelope from her handbag before prising the picture from inside and handing it to Marie. It was just what Joy had described. Lizzie Ancroft could be seen leaning over a table in the corner of a darkened room – where she surely thought she was sheltered by the group of people around her – clutching a rolled note which she was using to sniff a white powder. Richard could be seen standing talking to a man Marie didn’t recognise, some way from Lizzie. It could not be construed that he had seen her from the picture, but she knew that wouldn’t deter Damian from milking it for all it was worth.

  Marie wrestled with her conscience as she faced the growing realisation that this could be an election winner for Kelvin. Her stomach churned at the thought. But she had neither the energy nor the heart to let Damian down.

  “If we’re going to run with this, then we’ll need Lizzie Ancroft to spill the story on their relationship and her cocaine abuse. The picture’s not enough.”

  Joy looked at Marie for some time, clearly trying to weigh the reporter up. “Leave that with me,” she eventually replied. “But don’t you know how explosive this story is? How much it calls Richard Williams’ judgment into question for not only dating an MP in an opposing party, but one who had a cocaine habit? This could finish him.”

  “Yes,” Marie sighed. “I’m aware of that.”

  “I don’t want us to get overconfident, Henry. We haven’t won this election yet.” Richard served another reminder to his colleagues as he led Friday’s planning meeting in his office. The mood
around the SDP HQ was already turning to one of celebration, which made their leader distinctly uneasy. “We just can’t afford to drop our guard now,” he added.

  Following the press briefing earlier that morning, he, Ray and Henry had spent much of the day campaigning around Central London. Anna, Sandra and Libby, who had now formed an unlikely alliance, had separated from them after lunch to go and visit a home for the elderly in Finsbury Park. That left the three men plus Bob Guthrie to hold what was to be their last official planning meeting before the election. In the days ahead, they would be too busy out on the road fighting for every vote to sit down together in any number.

  The first ten minutes of the meeting had been taken up with Henry crowing about the glowing press coverage of Richard’s “victory” over Kelvin in the TV debate. Most political analysts had agreed that the opposition leader had appeared the more credible and trustworthy candidate throughout, but his win had been sealed with the impromptu closing speech he made which, they believed, had seen Richard put his past to rights.

  “We can afford to have confidence now, Richard,” Henry reasoned. “The Alliance can’t catch us anymore – we’re too far in front.”

  “I don’t want any of us to take our eye off the ball. We need to finish this as though we’re behind and battling like our careers depended on it,” Richard insisted.

  “He’s right,” said Ray. “We can be confident but not complacent.”

  “And we’ve still got Sunday to look forward to,” Bob chipped in sarcastically.

  “Well, we know the Echo will come up with something,” said Henry. “They’re not going to finish this campaign on a whimper, but whatever it is we’ll get on top of it. And we’ll have a much broader range of positive stories spread throughout the other Sundays.”

  “Would it be worth talking to Damian Blunt?” Ray asked. “See if he wants to wipe that egg off his face and back a winner?”

  “No,” Richard answered robustly. “As long as Victor Nemov is pulling the strings, we’re never going to get support from the Echo so we might as well just write them off and leave them to wallow in defeat. I’m prepared for whatever’s coming on Sunday and I’ll warn Anna too. There can’t be any skeletons left in our closets, but that won’t be an issue for them. If there’s nothing there, they’ll make it up.”