Cuckoo in the Chocolate

by Chris Longden

  He must have felt my body stiffen because he moved his arm away from me.

  “And, so. You don’t have an opinion other than ‘right’ - on this matter? That’s not like you, Rachael.”

  “Well, I do actually. But what can I say? You’re a grown man. You were when you first joined… the forces or whatever you call it. You make your own decisions in life.”

  “I’d like to know what you think. I suppose it’s a bit of a…”

  “Does it matter what I think? That you earned a salary by going round and killing people? Even if you hadn't been in the SAS – if you hadn't misled me to believe that you were just Joe Plebby Soldier – well. Let’s face it. That’s all the army is anyway. That’s what it’s all about, ultimately.”

  “Rachael, please try and put your prejudices aside for a minute.”

  “Oh, frigging hell, Michael!” I snapped. “You could have maybe mentioned this to me a little bit earlier! You know my beliefs on this kind of thing by now. I mean – you know what my job involves. You know the kind of people that I’m working with. The whole point of Sisters’ Space is that we’re all about anti-violence. We’re all about trying to look for peaceful resolutions to conflict.” He interrupted me with;

  “And yes. That’s all very nice and something to aspire to and I agree with that, of course. But the fact of the matter is this - that in the real world, there are people like Vinnie out there. And worse. There are people like Vinnie out there who are far more intelligent than he is… was. People who are much more ruthless. And so – for the greater good – we need to be able to react to that effectively.”

  “Oh, please. Don’t start off on an ideological ramble about Pacifism versus Just War… I simply thought that…”

  He began to scratch the back of his neck in frustration. I stood up and moved away from him and directed my attention out of the kitchen window. At the view across the rolling hills.

  “You thought - what?”

  “That we’ve been seeing each other for a few weeks now. Been sleeping together. So, I kind of hoped that you could have – would have – at least told me what you used to do. For a living. I mean, I wouldn’t be pissed off if you used to be a trapeze artist. Or a pig farmer. But… everyone and his dog knows what the SAS get up to.”

  Michael shook his head and muttered;

  “Yes, give the general public a bit of exposure to Andy McNab’s books and the like and they think that they know everything about it.”

  “Well, I’ve never read an Andy McNab book in my life, so I couldn’t possibly comment. But anyway. Don’t you think that I’m entitled to feel a bit shocked? Appalled? Annoyed?”

  The slight hitch of his shoulders;

  “Oh, Rachael, please. Be fair. You knew that I served in the army. Did you really need the detail of what I did? Have I asked you for the exact minutiae of your past? Things that maybe you’re not particularly proud of. That leave a bitter taste in your mouth?”

  I interrupted him with a toss of my head.

  “Oh yes. I’ve got plenty of things in my life that I’m not proud about, but hand on heart I can tell you that I haven’t murdered any Rag Heads or Johnny Foreigners in the last thirty-odd years!”

  We both fell silent now. Michael tried again.

  “Look. Please. Listen to me. All of a sudden – because of this knowledge – I can understand that you might think that I’m a different person to the one that you’ve been getting to know. That I’m some sort of … of Mr Hard Man SAS Guy.”

  “Ha!”

  I didn’t expand on the ‘Ha’, however. Because an image of Ross Kemp suddenly sprang to mind and I wasn’t going to admit to Michael that I’d always had a secret thing for ol’ bug eyes. He carried on;

  “… But I’m not. I’m still me. And the SAS me? That was a Me of some years ago now. Rachael, please do remember that I was young when I joined up. Fresh out of Oxford. For me, it was the dream career. I’ve always had a bit of a strategic head. Like to calculate risk. I was a lot fitter and packed a lot more muscle back then. It made perfect sense at the time. And isn’t one’s career – isn’t one’s life – a journey? Aren’t we allowed to change the direction that we always thought that we were heading in?”

  I proffered a limp shrug and toyed with a plastic clothes peg that happened to be lying next to the sink. I wondered whether I should do ‘a Matthew’ and put it on my nose in order to side-track the grown-up from wittering on at me too much. I decided against it and tossed it back onto the side of the sink. All resigned, like. He put one hand on my right shoulder and then placed his other on the left. Squeezed them gently.

  “I’d really like you to try and understand, Rachael. To understand why I made certain choices in my life. And why – yes – why I’m no longer doing that kind of job.”

  The ice was melting now. So, I asked;

  “You mean you want me to understand things like… why – how - you ended up with those scars on your back?”

  “Yes. It was just a job back then. But one day I realised that it wasn’t a good way to be living my life. Longer term. And that perhaps it wasn’t helping me to develop the kind of thinking about life… the kind of philosophy that I wanted to cling to, in my old age. And nor was it helping my fellow human beings. On a grand scale, I mean. Me living – and working like that.”

  “Right. So, don’t tell me. You left the SAS, went on a Buddhist enlightenment retreat… and thought that mainstream politics would be the true pathway to karmic fulfilment, then? Jeez. I’ve heard of some odd and hopeless spiritual paths in my time but…” I started sniggering.

  His mouth twitched but he was still trying to be serious.

  “Come on. Don’t laugh. You were very kind not to laugh at me when I showed great ignorance of your little old ladies – your Miss Simpsons - sitting in urine-soaked armchairs for months on end. It was just a job. For me – at that time in my life. But not now.”

  He looked me in the eyes and it struck me. He had only known me for a few weeks and already he knew how to disarm me from one of my frenzied sulks or rages. Just hug the woman. Try a joke. Listen to her. Appeal to her social conscience.

  The Git.

  And then when he realised that he was finally getting through to me, he kissed me hard on the mouth and said;

  “Okay?”

  “Okay,” I mumbled and kissed him back. Harder than Mr Big SAS man was anticipating.

  After a few seconds, we broke away from each other and Michael turned to drain the contents of his beer bottle.

  “Right. So maybe I do owe you a bit of an apology for holding off until now – about telling you the actual truth of what I used to do for a living.”

  “Yes. And your apology will only be graciously accepted if you agree to not talking any more twaddle about trying to cover up the fact of what Mason actually did.”

  “Fair enough.” He bent to kiss my nose. I added;

  “And maybe I should apologise to you too. Because I’ve only just realised that I haven’t told you how bloody amazing you were in there. In the hall, today. Really, impressive… God. I hate to use the word ‘courageous’ as it smacks of everything that I feel – politically and socially - in this society that we value wrongly and…”

  He was rolling his eyes now. Doing the ‘blah blah blah’ thing. I thumped him on the arm.

  “Oh alright, Michael. You had courage. Shitloads of it! Wow! Zowee! And all of that.”

  He smirked. “You didn’t do too badly yourself. For a girl.” I cuffed his ear and he dodged me. “My, for a woman of non-violence, you’re really not helping your cause. And anyway…” he said as he placed the empty bottle onto the draining board. “Even your old buddy Shaun Elliot showed a bit of courage out there. And I’ve just heard that he’s doing alright, actually. Nothing to worry about on his side of things. He’ll patch up nicely.”

  He was hovering, waiting to see my reaction. So, I smiled a brief, non-committal grin.

  “Oh. That’s g
ood – that’s really good. I did try and call the hospital myself – but couldn’t get through. That’s a relief.”

  “Yes,” agreed Michael. He looked away and continued with. “Certainly is. He was quite the big, plucky fella. I’ve seen trained men go to pieces in less of a situation. He even jumped in front of that silly tart, Erin Mayo. Quick reflexes. Brave stuff. And quite changed my opinion of him actually.”

  “Really?”

  “No. The man’s a dick.”

  And on that note, we went to bed.

  CHAPTER 33

  In the morning, over toast and marmalade (me) and six shredded wheat (Michael) we talked about Trevor and Ross and their absence from the hall. They had been ordered to take time off until the Met Police’s Special Protection branch had investigated why and how Michael had been separated from them. Both were shaken by the events and had apologised to Michael. He said;

  “I actually don’t blame either of them. As you saw – it was utter chaos in the hall when Vinnie started firing.”

  But Michael knew that Trevor's actions would not be viewed with such sympathy by the powers that be. And apparently, the same level of scrutiny would be directed at Ross – both men were faced with the very real risk of having the accusations of ‘neglect of duties' levelled at them. Even though they both could have been killed if they had stayed in the hall.

  “It's crazy,” I told him. “Having to investigate their actions. Because if they had tried to intervene… Surely that would have been much more dangerous for everyone? I mean, you can save your own bacon. Quite obviously.”

  “Special Protection wouldn’t see it like that,” he said, shaking his head, “because – come on - most cabinet ministers would have been totally helpless in such a situation. Orders are orders.”

  So, even though Ross had managed to yank dozens of the less-startled and more-curious by-standers out of the hall and even though he was first on the scene to assist Councillor Casey once she had been put outside the exit doors, the overriding concern of Special Protection would be that both men may have acted in direct contravention to what they were supposed to be doing. In short, Michael told me – it wasn't their job to be helping Joe and Josephine Public.

  I got angry.

  “Well then. It sounds like a shit job to me. Even if they are on a good whack.”

  My irritation was curbed by his next statement – that he could come in for criticism himself – as it would be on record with Special Protection that Vicky had travelled up to Manchester, in the ministerial car with them. He wondered aloud whether some might see it as him encouraging Trevor to become distracted, from his job.

  “Oh, bloody hellfire. Really?”

  “Yes, but I think that I’ve got a good story. Well, an alternative spin on things.”

  Michael told me that after the formal interview with the police, the DI let slip that there had been ‘a bit of a kerfuffle’ at the entrance to the building where Ross had been stationed. That Erin Mayo and her camera guy had been trying to get in and that the receptionists tried to turn them away, informing them that press were not allowed inside. But clearly, the journalists got through anyway. Apparently, the police seemed to be thinking along the lines that thanks to all the argy-bargy, Vinnie must have sneaked past the receptionists.

  “See where I'm going with this, Rachael?”

  “Yeah. Both Sandra and Cerys know what Vinnie looks like. They would never have allowed him access. So, yeah. All of that sounds a bit more acceptable than Ross neglecting his duties. Yes, nice one. Let’s blame the press!”

  “And furthermore - do you remember when Mason and his brother were shrieking about being on the TV?”

  I nodded and Michael reminded me that the crowd had suddenly surged forward to try and get their own mugs on the telly. He told me that for a few seconds, he and Trevor were separated from each other and that if Trevor had tried to get back to the minister's side he would have been directly in Vinnie’s firing line. And whilst it was Trevor’s job to assess risk and to protect senior politicians;

  “It isn’t about him taking a bullet for us. So, as it was, Trevor took the next viable option - which was to get vulnerable people – i.e. your sister – out of the hall. As fast as he could. Anyway, that's what I'll be saying to Special Protection and at any inquiry.”

  I was impressed and told him so. He shrugged the praise off with;

  “Thank you, but there's no need for thanks. It’s what I do for a living. I make things sound more impressive than they actually are.”

  With breakfast now being completed, Michael proposed to try and impress me again. But as we stood up to leave the table and to return to the bedroom, his mobile rang. He took the call. Lots of “uh-huh,” and “I see” and then he hung up, explaining;

  “Marvin,” with a sigh. “Alex the Twat has been onto him. Marv and the boys want me back in London, pronto. Bit of a tête-àtête about spinning a good story. Making the most of everything.”

  I did propose that Number Ten get with the twenty-first Century and discuss such matters via Skype or Facetime or whatever. But apparently, this sort of thing was no-go. Michael in the flesh was all that they would settle for.

  “Which is a shame, as I was planning on staying up here for a few days. There's only another week before recess ends and the House sits again. Thing is as well… Medlock police said that I might be needed for further enquiries.”

  “Right.”

  “But… it can’t be helped. The police up here will just have to send someone down to London to grill me further if they need to. And I’m sure as dammit that Graham the Griper won’t be dragging me out to any constituency fêtes today, as originally planned. The poor chap nearly had a heart attack yesterday. It’s going to take him ages to recover from all the excitement. The biggest thrill that he’s ever been exposed to before, in the world of local politics, was when a bag of icing sugar burst all over his new suit at the sugar factory tour in Droylsden.”

  I nodded.

  “So, I’d better head back to the Big Smoke.”

  I nodded.

  I understood. Of course I did. And yet.

  He finally realised.

  “Oh, Rachael. Here I go again… we'd planned to try and spend some time together this week before the bloody recess is over. Just the two of us. And now it’s all gone tits-up. Oh, Christ. I’m sorry.”

  I shook my head.

  “No. I’m the one who should be apologising. Me getting you to support us lot at the Women’s Centre has ended up with things getting so crazy. So, messed up for you.”

  He pulled me towards him. Brushed toast crumbs from my lips.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. But yes, let’s try and think about all of this positively. It might be more helpful – for everything – if we both tried to lie-low for a few days. Away from each other, I mean. Because you can just imagine the story the press would cook up if they get a whiff of the two of us being an item.”

  So yes, it all made sense. Perfectly logical. And therefore, I tried my best to shrug off the irrational emotions. To do the Michael Thing. To act all cerebrally-driven, rather than operating on emotional impulse. To stop being a wuss. But as we said our farewells to each other just an hour later, I couldn’t help but hear an echo; a reverberation, a hangover from the past and a dangerous reminder. That someone whom I was far too keen on, wanted their involvement with me to be kept contained. A secret.

  Shades of Shaun.

  So, it was a swift farewell from a minister on his mission down south. And it was an even more hurried bon voyage to my parents. I gathered my offspring with rapid speed as I thanked my folks and quickly bundled the twosome into the car.

  On the drive back home I chewed over the fact that yet again, the fallout of my life - and more precisely my workplace - would be resulting in headlines for Michael. But right here and right now, I was surprising myself. I didn't really care too much about all of that. Perhaps after the Brindleford biker situation and after th
e Jesus badge fiasco, I was becoming hardened to the calamities that my little family seemed to be inflicting on Michael’s political life.

  And maybe I should also be looking at it another way. Rather than feeling sorry for Michael (correction – rather than feeling guilty ) about the Russell Familial Effect, perhaps I should be viewing it from another paradigm. What if the Right Honourable Michael Chiswick happened to be the dodgy ingredient in my life? The element responsible for hurtling the various crises in my general direction.

  I asked myself what Adam's thoughts on the matter would have been. No doubt something along the lines of “Well, Rachael, the bloke's got a decent bike. So, he'll not be a bad 'un.”

  Something that he had once said about Shaun.

  After a cheap and quick Sunday lunch - baked beans on Ryvita as we had run out of bread - the doorbell chimed. Detective Inspector Dave Garratt and another man were standing outside my home, pretending that they were not examining the number of empty wine bottles in the recycling box.

  “Yes, I know,” said the DI. “I’m like a bad penny. Rachael - meet Detective Les Forsyth. We decided to pootle on over here to see you, rather than drag you back to Medlock on your day off.”

  “Nice little Sunday afternoon drive actually,” commented the other man. He was tall and skinny in his navy rainmac, and he sported tiny wire-rimmed spectacles. All very 1990s.

  “Yep,” added Dave. “Gorgeous up on the moors there. Can see why you defected from the Lancashire side to live on the border. Can almost forgive you for being Yorkshire these days.”

  I did my best to smile warmly, but my heart was flipping like a fish gasping for air. I ushered two nosey children away from the door and into the lounge, shoving some Disney-tosh on the telly, in order to distract them. I tried to appear relaxed, to act the genial hostess. But it’s always unnerving; having the police visit you at your own home, only twenty-four hours after you’ve been held hostage in a workplace siege with accompanying dead body count. I sat the pair of them down in the kitchen with a cup of tea and a plate of Lydia’s favourite Party Ring biscuits and the DI told me that Dawn had regained consciousness and kicked the coma into touch. Cue relief all round. And me offering a silent prayer to the God of Hard-Arsed Mancunian Women. I asked about her kids.