House of Cards

by Michael Dobbs

  And that was the moment he saw him. Standing in the front row, squashed between the other cheering supporters, waving and applauding with the rest of them. Simon. The one person in the world he had hoped he would never see or hear from again.

  They had met in a railway carriage, late one night as Earle had been coming back from a rally in the Northwest. They had been alone, Earle had been drunk, and Simon had been very, very friendly. And handsome. Appealed to a side of Earle he had been struggling since university to forget. As the train thundered through the night he and Simon had entered a world cut off from the bright lights and responsibilities they had just left. Earle had discovered himself committing acts that would have made him liable to a prison sentence several years before and which were still only legal between consenting adults in private and certainly not in a British Rail carriage twenty minutes out of Birmingham.

  Earle had staggered from the train at Euston, thrust two twenties into Simon’s hand, and spent the night at his club. He couldn’t face going back home.

  He hadn’t seen Simon for another six months until out of the blue he’d turned up in the Central Lobby of the Houses of Parliament asking the police attendants if he could see him. When the panic-stricken Minister arrived the youth hadn’t made a public fuss, had explained how he had recognized Earle from a recent party political broadcast, had asked for the money in a very gentle fashion. Earle had paid him some “expenses” for his trip to London and wished him well.

  Simon had turned up again a few weeks later and Earle knew there would be no respite. He had instructed Simon to wait. Then he had sought sanctuary in the corner of the Chamber, spent ten minutes looking over the scene he had grown to love, knowing that the youth outside threatened everything he treasured in his life. Finding no answer himself he had dragged himself to the Chief Whip’s Office and spilled the lot. There was a youth sitting in the Central Lobby blackmailing him for a brief and stupid fling they’d had many months before. He was finished.

  “Bit of a bugger’s muddle,” Urquhart had suggested before apologizing for the inappropriate metaphor. “But not to worry, Harold, worse things happened on the retreat from Dunkirk, not to mention the Upper Corridor Committee Room. Just point the little shit out to me.”

  Urquhart had been as good as his word, bloody magnificent, in fact. He had introduced himself to the boy and assured him that if he were not off the premises in five minutes the police would be called and he would be arrested for blackmail. “Oh, don’t think you’re the first,” Urquhart had assured him. “Happens remarkably often. It’s simply that in such sordid cases the arrest and subsequent trial are held with desperately little publicity. No one will hear who you’ve been trying to blackmail, and very few people will even get to know how long you’ve been sent down for. Perhaps only your poor mother.”

  Without further inducement the youth had come to the conclusion he had made a terrible mistake and should vanish from the premises and from Harold Earle’s life as quickly as possible, but Urquhart had taken the precaution of taking down the details from Simon’s driving license, just in case he were to continue to cause trouble.

  And now he was back, squashed into a seat in the front row, ready to make unknown demands about which Earle’s fevered imagination could only torment itself. The torment went on throughout the speech, which ended as a considerable disappointment to his followers. The content was there, printed in large type on his small pages of recycled paper, but the fire was gone. He stumbled through his officials’ tired prose, sweat dripping from his nose even on a cold November day, his mind seeming elsewhere even as he was delivering the lines. The faithful still clapped and applauded enthusiastically when he was finished, but it didn’t help. The mayor almost had to drag him into the pit of the hall to satisfy the clamor of the crowd for one last handshake and the chance personally to wish their favorite son well. As they cheered him and pummeled him on the back he was drawn ever closer to Simon’s youthful, penetrating, knowing eyes. It was as if he were being dragged toward the gates of Hell itself. But Simon caused no scene, did nothing but shake his clammy hand and smile while toying nervously with the medallion that swung ostentatiously around his neck. Then he was gone, just another face left behind in the crowd.

  * * *

  When Earle arrived back home, two men were standing outside in the cold street waiting.

  “Evening, Mr. Earle, Mrs. Earle. Simmonds and Peters from the Mirror. Interesting rally you had. We’ve got the press handout, the words, but we need a bit of color for our readers. Like how the audience reacted. Got anything to say about your audience, Mr. Earle?”

  He rushed inside without a word, dragging his wife and slamming the door behind him. He watched through a curtained window as they shrugged their shoulders and retreated to the estate car parked on the other side of the street. They pulled out a book and a thermos flask, and settled down for the long night ahead.

  Thirty-Seven

  The nature of ambition is that it requires casualties.

  Sunday, November 21

  They were still there the following morning just after dawn when Earle looked out. One was asleep, napping under a trilby hat pulled down over his eyes, the other was rifling through the Sunday newspapers. They bore little resemblance to the previous week’s editions. A leadership campaign that had been dead in the water had now, with Urquhart’s intervention and McKenzie’s catastrophe, sprung into life.

  What was more, the pollsters were beginning to wear down the MPs’ resistance. “ALL SQUARE!” declared the Observer, announcing that the 60 percent of the Parliamentary Party they had managed to cajole into giving a view were now evenly split between the three leading candidates—Samuel, Earle, and Woolton, with Urquhart close behind. McKenzie had disappeared without trace, as had the small lead that Samuel had previously enjoyed.

  The news would give no joy to Earle. He had spent a sleepless night, pacing the floors and fending off the questions of his increasingly worried wife. He had tried to find comfort but could see only Simon’s face. The presence of the two journalists had kept nagging at him. How much did they know? Why were they squatting on his doorstep? As the first fingers of dawn began to spread cold and gray in the November sky, he found himself drained. He could resist no longer. He had to know.

  Peters nudged Simmonds awake as the unshaven figure of Earle, his silk dressing gown wrapped tight around him, emerged from the front door of his house and made toward them.

  “Works like a dream every time,” Peters said. “Like a mouse after cheese. Let’s see what he has to say for himself, Alf—and turn that bloody tape machine on.”

  “Good morning, Mr. Earle,” Peters shouted as Earle approached. “Don’t stand out there in the cold, come sit inside. Care for a cup of coffee?”

  “What do you want? Why are you spying on me?” Earle demanded, ignoring the offer.

  “Spying, Mr. Earle? Don’t be silly, we’re just looking for a bit of color. You’re a leading candidate to become Prime Minister. Seen the newspapers yet? You’re all over them. People are bound to take more interest in you—about your hobbies, what you do. Who your friends are.”

  “I have nothing to say!”

  “Could we interview your wife, perhaps?” Simmonds asked.

  “What are you implying?” Earle demanded in a contorted, high pitched voice.

  “My goodness me nothing at all, sir. By the way, have you seen the photos of your rally yesterday? They’re very good, really clear. We’re thinking of using one on our front page tomorrow. Here, have a look.”

  A hand thrust a large glossy photograph out of the window and waved it under Earle’s nose. He grabbed it, then he gasped. It showed him gripping the hand and looking straight into the eyes of a smiling, simpering Simon. The details were awesomely clear. It almost looked as if some hidden hand had added a trace of eyeliner around Simon’s large eyes and his fleshy, petulant
lips appeared to have grown darker, more prominent. The fingers playing with the medallion around his neck were beautifully manicured.

  “Know this gentleman well, do you, sir?” Simmonds asked.

  “One of your close supporters, is he? And how precisely does he support you, Mr. Earle?” Peters joined in.

  Earle’s hand was trembling. He threw the photograph back through the car window. “What are you trying to do? I deny everything. I shall report your harassment to your editor!”

  “Editor, sir? Why, bless me, it’s him what sent us.”

  Thirty-Eight

  It’s all very well volunteering to lead an army, but that’s the point that the enemy aims at first. Better just a few steps behind, give yourself time to pick your way through the piles of bodies.

  Monday, November 22

  The Members’ Lobby that is the main entrance to the Chamber is dominated by large bronze figures of Churchill and Attlee and Lloyd George. The toecaps of the statues are bright from the brushing fingers of MPs hoping to share in their greatness. The Lobby has two solid oak doors that protect the Chamber and on which Black Rod knocks to summon MPs for the State Opening of Parliament. The door is set in a battered stone arch that still bears the scars of the destruction of the original Chamber in the bombing of 1941. When the Chamber had been rebuilt, Churchill had asked for the disfigured and scorched arch to be retained. “To remind us.”

  The Lobby is also where Members collect messages.

  “Hello, Mr. Kendrick.”

  He looked up from his inspection of various pieces of paper to find Mattie at his elbow. He smiled. “You’re…”

  “Mattie Storin.”

  “Yes, of course you are.” His eyes wandered before returning to her face. “And what can I do for you, Mattie?”

  “I’d like to ask you a few questions, if that’s all right.”

  “My pleasure. But not now, I’m afraid,” he said, glancing at his watch. “How about tea? My place? Four-thirty? I’ll have plenty of time for you then.”

  Kendrick was an Opposition backbencher and his office was a small single room in Norman Shaw North, the red brick building made famous in countless aging black and white films as New Scotland Yard, the headquarters of the Metropolitan Police. The forces of law and order had long since moved to a gray concrete fortress in Victoria Street, and the parliamentary authorities had been delighted to snap up the vacant, albeit dilapidated, space just across the road from the Houses of Parliament to provide much needed additional office space. Kendrick jumped up from his desk as she walked in.

  “Mattie, come into my home and invade my personal space. It’s got as much charm as a monk’s cell, hasn’t it?”

  “Wouldn’t know. I don’t do monks,” she replied.

  He helped her out of her coat, his eyes appreciative rather than predatory, her woolen sweater deliberately tight, her skirt short enough to show her knees. She needed his attention and she was getting it.

  “Tea, or…” he inquired, lifting an eyebrow.

  “Or,” she said.

  He pulled a bottle of chardonnay from a small refrigerator that stood in a corner and pulled down two glasses from a bookshelf. She sat on the small sofa while he poured.

  “Home,” she said, raising her glass in salute.

  “This is nothing like bloody home and I never want it to be,” he growled. “How the hell we’re expected to run a faded empire from broom closets, God only knows. But I’ll drink to it with you, anyway.”

  “You can’t hate it so much. You spent years struggling to get into the place.”

  “Ungrateful sod, aren’t I?” he said and burst into a fetching smile.

  “And you’ve managed to make your mark very quickly.”

  “Flattery, eh? And legs. You must want something very badly.” He looked at her with steady, understanding eyes. It was her turn to smile.

  “Mr. Kendrick—”

  “Oh, bloody hell, we’re way past the Mr. Kendrick stage, I hope.”

  “Stephen, I’m looking at a piece on how Parliament works and how politics can be so full of surprises. And when it comes to surprises, yours was one of the biggest.”

  Kendrick chuckled. “I’m still amazed at how my reputation was built on such a—well, what would you call it? Stroke of luck? Throw of the dice? Guesswork?”

  “Are you trying to tell me you didn’t actually know the hospital scheme had been shelved, that you were guessing?” she asked, her tone incredulous.

  “You don’t believe that?”

  “Let me put it this way. I’m a cynic with a smile.”

  “Well, so long as you’re smiling, Mattie…” He poured another glass for her. “Let me put it this way. I wasn’t absolutely certain. I took a risk.”

  “So what did you know?”

  “Off the record?”

  “Way off, if you like.”

  “I’ve never really told the full story before to anyone…” He glanced down to where Mattie was rubbing her ankles, as if to relieve sore shins. “But I like your interrogation technique. And I suppose there’s no harm in telling you a little of the background.” He pondered a second to decide how far he should go. “I found out that the Government—or rather their Party Headquarters—had planned a massive publicity campaign to promote the new hospital plan. They’d worked hard at it, spent a lot of money on the preparations—well, you would, wouldn’t you, with a plan like that? But at the last minute they canceled the whole bloody thing. Just pulled the plug on it. I thought about it for a long while, and the more I thought the only explanation that made any sense was that they weren’t pulling the plug just on the publicity campaign but on the policy itself. So I decided to challenge the Prime Minister—and he fell for it! I couldn’t have been more surprised myself.”

  “I don’t remember any discussion at the time about a publicity campaign.”

  “They wanted the element of surprise. I think all the planning of it was highly confidential.”

  “You obviously have confidential sources.”

  “And that’s exactly how they’re going to stay, even for you. Confidential! It’s the sort of thing I wouldn’t even tell my ex.”

  “You’re…”

  “Divorced. Very single.”

  Mattie suspected he was offering a deal but, as attractive as he was, she wasn’t willing to pay that sort of price. Her life was already complicated enough.

  “I know how valuable sources are,” she said, getting the conversation back on track, “but can you give me a little guidance? The leak could only have come from one of two sources, Party or Government, yes…?”

  “Insight as well as ankles.”

  “There’s been bad blood between Party Headquarters and Downing Street since the election. You said it was a party publicity drive, so it would be logical to suspect the information came out of Party Headquarters.”

  “You’re very good, Mattie. But you didn’t get that from me, OK? And I’m not saying any more about my source.” His tone had lost its gaiety, he was now in business mode and cautious.

  “No need to worry. Roger’s secret is safe with me.”

  Kendrick was halfway through a mouthful of wine. He let it dribble back into his glass. The eyes, when they came up to meet hers, were like unhammered steel. “You think I’m shallow enough to turn on an old friend just because you flash your tits at me?”

  An old friend? The pieces of this part of the jigsaw were beginning to fit together. “I know it was Roger. I don’t need you to confirm it. And I’m not on an inquisition. He’s got enough on his plate without this. This won’t appear in the press.”

  “So why are you here?”

  “Information. Understanding.”

  “And there was me beginning to like you. I think it’s time for you to leave, Mattie.”

  * * *r />
  The men from the Mirror were there at lunchtime and still there in the evening, reading, picking their teeth, watching. They had been waiting for Earle in their sordid little car almost continuously for forty-eight hours, witnessing every flicker of the curtain, photographing everyone who called including the postman and the milkman. And his wife, of course. He found only a crumb of comfort that she had left early to visit her sister. Sweet, blind woman that she was, she’d assumed the journalists were lurking outside her front door because of the leadership campaign—which, in a way, they were.

  Earle had no one to turn to, no one with whom to share his misery or seek wise counsel. He was a lonely figure, a sincere and even devout man who had made one mistake for which one day he knew he would pay.

  They had grown tired with waiting. They knocked on the door. “Sorry to bother you, Mr. Earle. Simmonds and Peters again. Just a quick question our editor wanted us to ask. How long have you known him?”

  Into his face was thrust another photograph of Simon, this time taken not at a public rally but in a photographer’s studio, and dressed from head to foot in black leather slashed by zip fasteners. The jacket was open to the waist, exposing a slender, tapering body, while from his right hand there trailed a long bullwhip.

  “Go away. Go away. Please—go away!” he screamed, so loudly that neighbors came to the window to investigate.

  “If it’s inconvenient, we’ll come back some other time, sir.” Silently they filed back to their car and resumed the watch.

  Thirty-Nine

  Those who wish to climb the tallest trees must accept the consequence that it is likely to expose their most vulnerable parts.

  Tuesday, November 23