'Don't you dare lecture me about betrayal! They all knew the risks. Volunteers every one. And victims. Casualties of war, just like you and me.'
'I missed that. Like you and me?'
'Didn't I explain?' Amadeus pulled a contrite face. 'These mortar things start spraying as soon as they're fired. There'll probably be enough undiluted backwash to… well, to ensure that neither of us is in much of a position to worry about what happens after.'
Goodfellowe said it softly, yet with passion. 'Shit.'
'Sorry, Tom. I'm used to the idea of giving up my life for what I believe in. But you're a politician. Don't suppose the thought ever entered your head.'
'I am going to die?'
'Possibly. Probably. You're right, it depends upon Bendall. Not my call.' Amadeus was eyeing Goodfellowe curiously. 'Tell me, Tom, how do you feel about that?'
'Dizzy, I guess. Must be the fresh air up here.'
'Or the thought of your life hanging on the whim of a politician?'
'Perhaps it's that I'm a little more confused than you about the principles I'm supposed to be dying for.'
'No need for confusion. It's that stuff we learnt about in civics at school. Justice. Honour. Fair play.'
'Oh God, spare me the lectures about the playing fields of England.'
'Damn you, then try the Falklands! Or the Gulf. The Bogside. Bosnia. Kosovo. All the places British soldiers have been sent to die by politicians who couldn't find the hole in their fucking underpants let alone half these places on a map. The world out there's still a gutter and we need our armed forces to clean it up as much as we ever did. And the only thing our armed forces need, all they've ever asked for, is a little respect.'
'Respect? With the City gone and the economy crippled? What sort of dream world are you in? You'll make the military the whipping boy of every third-rate politician in the country. They'll charge around the corridors of Westminster like demented puppets crying, "Never again! Never again!" And there won't be a Chancellor in Christendom who'll resist the temptation to pick the military's pocket at every turn. They'll fillet the armed forces as though they were the last fish on this planet. Save them? You won't have saved them, you'll have shattered them more effectively than a Russian first strike. These aren't principles, these are the excuses of a suicide note!'
'This isn't a bloody election. There aren't always easy options. People must be made to realize-'
'No, it's you who've got to realize. Dying for your country is one thing. Dying for some half-baked idea is totally bloody different!'
'Scully died – and for what? He was willing to risk his life anywhere in the world for his country, but instead he died for no better reason than to save the neck of that scumbag in Downing Street. And that's why he's got to go. What more reason do you want, for pity's sake? Scully is…' – Amadeus loses a beat – 'was the finest, most decent man I ever served with. They killed him. Shot him like a dog. This isn't a game any more, Tom. I'm not fiddling around with traffic lights or telephone systems. There's blood on the ground – Scully's blood – and I swear it's not going to lie there alone. He deserves more than that!'
Goodfellowe's response was basted in sarcasm. 'Ah, so there we have it. Forgive me, I thought we had been talking about high principle, a matter of honour. But this is nothing but a little piss pot of revenge.'
'No!'
'But certainly. First you pretend you are doing this for your country, yet your country will revile you. You know something, Peter? They're going to stand in great queues to spit upon your name, while Bendall will come secretly at night to dance in celebration on your grave. So then you change your tack and say you are doing this for Scully. For Scully? All you'll be doing is reducing Scully's memory to nothing better than a kettle of stinking fish.'
Amadeus is suddenly finding it difficult to breathe, as if he has his head above hot coals. He is confused. 'This is for Skulls. For Albert Andrew. He was my friend. He wasn't in this for any reason. Only because I asked him.'
Goodfellowe's voice has risen to the level of a shout. 'But I thought you said he volunteered. So this is what it's all about. Not about country or conscience, least of all poor old Scully. This is about your own pathetic sense of shame.'
The pistol is still pointed directly at Goodfellowe's heart but it is now shaking, held too tight, and Amadeus's eyes are closed, images of Scully rushing before his mind. He is very near the edge. Goodfellowe is still shouting, pushing.
'Scully was betrayed, for sure. But by you. He trusted you and you got him killed. That's it. That's all of it. Shame! Shame! Shame on you!'
Amadeus is shaking his head, a jerking motion. Nothing is working properly any more. A straining noise is coming from his throat. He wants to reply, to bulldoze his way through the accusations, but he can find neither words nor wind. It is dark and he is standing over a body, of a young Argentinian conscript with a bayonet in his belly and a soundless scream on his twisted lips. But suddenly he can see more clearly and realizes the corpse is not that of some foreign devil but of Scully, lying amidst dust and rubble. In Battersea. His body is lifeless, except for the eyes. The eyes are staring out, accusing. If anyone had to die it should have been Amadeus. Not Albert Andrew. He was owed. By Amadeus above all others.
Shame! Shame! Shame!
Amadeus has run out of arguments. He can no longer move. Slowly, the pistol tilts away from Goodfellowe's heart, then falls to the ground.
Goodfellowe is shaking, very scared, but his tone grows softer, the lash put to one side. 'Sometimes the best means of attack is to do nothing, Peter. You've left Jonathan Bendall without a friend in the world. He's brought London grinding to a halt and caused chaos to millions. Don't give him the excuse to play the moralizer, to say it was all worth it. Leave him to dangle while his nearest and dearest fight amongst themselves to be the one to finish him off. You don't have to bother. Don't you see, Peter, you've won already? The only thing that can snatch that victory away from you is what you are planning to do now.'
Amadeus is slumped against the wall. He doesn't look as though he has won the greatest battle of his life. His lips mouth the word 'Scully' over and over.
Goodfellowe glances at his watch. Oh, Hellfire! Two minutes to three! He moves across gently, takes up the plastic shotgun, turns to Amadeus.
'Peter, I'm sorry to ask this but… I know you normally carry a mobile phone. May I borrow it?'
'Wh-what?'
'Your phone.' Goodfellowe holds out his hand, demanding.
Like a man who has just stumbled bloodied from a boxing ring, Amadeus searches half-aware inside his pocket. At last he finds the phone.
Goodfellowe takes it, retreats, begins punching numbers. For pity's sake let them answer this time.
It's as though his whole life now hangs in the balance. He can still save Bendall. For a while at least. Long enough for Goodfellowe to be granted the status of a national hero, to ensure that his elevation to the Cabinet becomes a foregone conclusion and -
Oh, mother's milk. That time – two minutes to three.
The train.
Elizabeth.
He has missed her. Mislaid her, until this moment. And now she has gone to Paris.
He will have fame. More fortune than he has ever dreamed of. Plus the woman of his dreams.
He is one phone call away from his destiny. All he has to do is to save Jonathan Bendall and claim his prize. But in making that phone call he will also destroy Peter Amadeus, a man who in so many ways Goodfellowe secretly admires. The body of his friend used as a stepping stone for his own ambition.
It will make him no better than Bendall.
The phone in his hand is ringing insistently. A minute to three. Sixty seconds. Then it answers.
'Downing Street. How may I help you?'
Goodfellowe stares at it for what seems a moment longer than an entire lifetime.
Then he throws the phone as far as he can after the radio.
AFTERMATH
&n
bsp; The words of defiance and high principle uttered by Bendall on the step of Number Ten would have carried more weight had he not first, on the dot of three o'clock, had to announce that he was resigning. After that, the media quickly came to indulge in lurid headlines and speculation as to who would succeed him rather than bathing in the dead waters of constitutional principle. The plain truth was that no one liked Bendall and precious few came to his defence.
And when, in the following days, the most rigorous search of the many corners and crevices of the City failed to detect a single trace of either explosive, weaponry or even a mislaid catapult, his noble sacrifice came to seem more a lack of nerve. He'd bottled it. Like a poker player with a knave, queen and king all held in his hand – or at least locked up in the top security wing of Paddington Green police station – yet lacking the grit to call the other man's bluff. For bluff it clearly was. Beaky might have had a shy at a couple of traffic lights and an architectural eyesore, but the City of London? Never! Hell, he was the bravest animal in the land! Which was more than could be said of Jonathan Bendall. A man who had created a crisis out of, well, in hindsight, out of practically nothing.
They didn't stay in Paddington Green for long. The prosecution had a whole confection of suspicions and circumstance, but no hard evidence beyond a mobile phone and an inspired punt on the Stock Exchange that was, of course, no evidence at all. If that were evidence they'd have to lock up at least six former Ministers.
So they were released. McKenzie took up a position with Medecins Sans Frontieres and never returned to Britain, while Mary was engaged by a leading firm of City insurance brokers that specialized in terrorism and political risk. She spent much of her time in Latin America negotiating the release of kidnap victims, and fell in love with a prominent Colombian lawyer after obtaining his release from eight months in captivity. Like all her emotional adventures, it didn't work out. Freddie Payne stayed in London, got divorced, then got drunk, and afterwards went skiing near his bank in Switzerland.
Some months after the incident, Goodfellowe found he could no longer resist the temptation to discover what had become of Amadeus. His enquiries revealed that his old schoolfriend had long since left both the Barbican and his wife. There was a report that a senior British Para officer had been killed fighting in Chechnya against the Russians, but it came from a source that had also tracked down Lord Lucan to a cave in Scotland. Yet it might have been true, for no one ever heard of Peter Amadeus again.
– =OO=OOO=OO-= He didn't call her for several days afterwards.
'You didn't call,' she said when at last Goodfellowe came round.
'No, neither did you.'
'But, darling, I never do. You know me.'
'Yes, I guess I do.'
They were both circling, already sparring. How typical, he thought.
'Good trip?'
'Excellent. Although I was half expecting you to try and head me off at the railway station.'
'Funny enough, so was I. But I got distracted.'
'Something wrong? You sound… different.'
'Things are different, Elizabeth.'
'Why, because of Paris?'
'Not just because of Paris.'
'What, more of your silly jealousy? Bloody men!'
'No, not jealousy – at least, not just jealousy. You knew how much it would hurt me, but I could deal with that. I always have. The point is that I could have stopped you going to Paris, yet I didn't. I was on the way to Waterloo, it seemed the most important thing in my life, yet… I got distracted. I suppose I'm always going to get distracted. And what with your distractions…' He took a long look around The Kremlin.
'This is an insurance policy, not a distraction,' she insisted. Her voice was beginning to catch with apprehension. He was preparing the ground for something, she wasn't sure what. For once she wasn't in control. 'Anyway, it's all sorted. I got the loan.'
'You didn't need the loan. You didn't need to go to Paris.' A raised voice, a touch of irritation. 'In truth, the only reason you went to Paris is because you insisted on doing it your way. Throughout all this I've been an irrelevance. You wouldn't let me be involved.'
'There was no other way! Come on, Tom, you know you don't have seventy thousand!'
'You don't need seventy thousand. On Thursday morning I went to see your landlord. A certain Mr Sandman. Difficult fellow. One brown eye, one blue, so I didn't know which one to look at. Foreign, I think. Anyway, I explained to him the foolishness of putting up your rent in the middle of a recession. Told him frankly that it would put you out of business and then he'd get no rent at all.'
'And?'
'Sadly he remained desperately unconvinced. Didn't give a damn. Told me to sod off, in fact, until I told him about his other problems.'
'What other problems?'
'It seems that Mr Sandman has got his claws into several restaurants in central London. He's been trying to turn them into bars. Apparently bars are more recession-proof, people drink through their miseries even if they can't afford to eat. That's why he's been jacking up the rents, trying to force people like you out in order to turn everything into high-profit watering holes.'
Her eyes began to fill with misery.
'However, in order to do that he needs the consent not only of the planning authorities but also the licensing justices. So I explained to him that the whole of the local residents' association in this part of town is on e-mail, which means that with a single touch of a button I can get four thousand objections put in to any planning or licensing application he might make. That's when he began to concede that I might have a case. Then I told him that the four thousand included a couple of hundred Members of Parliament and the chief licensing justice herself. At which point, for reasons which are beyond me, Mr Sandman became overwhelmingly convinced by the logic of my argument.'
'You mean…?'
'The rent's been frozen.'
She uttered a cry of joy and threw her arms round him, but somehow it was an unconvincing gesture and he remained uncharacteristically wooden.
'I could have helped, if you'd asked. But then I could have stopped you going to Paris, if I hadn't allowed myself to get distracted. My fault.'
'Paris meant nothing.'
'No, it meant so much, to me at least, not just because of jealousy but because you were cutting me off. You knew how much that hurt, yet still you went. And that's your fault.' He bit his lip until it hurt.
'A relationship shouldn't be a set of shackles.'
'Whatever happened to commitment and loyalty?'
'For God's sake, what is this, a sheep-dog trial?'
'Yes, a bit old fashioned, I agree. But over the past few days I've had a couple of refresher lessons. In commitment that goes too far – and the type that doesn't go far enough.' She flushed. 'You remember when we talked, about motivations being more important than actions? On the whole, I think I prefer the motivations of the sheep dog.'
'But I love you, Tom.'
'When we're together, yes. But commitment needs to be a full-time thing, not something that gets squeezed in between courses.'
'Or punctures.'
'My point exactly. Both our faults.'
'You're being silly. You're always looking for a fight, Tom. Can't resist it. Your bloody nature.'
He wasn't sure if she was talking about his politics or their relationship. It scarcely mattered which. 'There are things we both want too much, Elizabeth. Most of all, perhaps, we want each other to be different to what we are. You want me to be on show in the back of a ministerial car, but sadly I seem condemned to be on my bike in the gutter.'
'And me? What do you want me to be?'
'Perhaps it's that I want you to be in love with me as much as I am with you. And that's never going to happen.'
She could, perhaps, have contested the point. She could have cried, but that would come later, in private. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of a public display. Instead, very softly, she damned the whole rac
e of stubborn men and their inherent and extraordinary capabilities for letting women down. She should be used to it by now, yet – oh, how it always hurt.
'That's it?'
'That's it.'
'Lucky for me I held on to the restaurant, then,' she offered stubbornly.
'I think I ought to go.'
He rose.
'Even with the frozen rent I would still have needed more capital. Needed Paris.' It was a last defiant charge thrown at him across the room. He turned.
'Oh, I was forgetting. Bendall introduced me to the Ukrainian Ambassador the other day. He's arranging a presidential visit here. Turns out the president is a cousin of your mayor in Odessa. Small world. So I took the liberty of mentioning the problem a very close friend of mine was having with a shipment of wine from that city. The ambassador was charming and very understanding. I think he saw my request as part of the general back scratching that goes on between presidents and prime ministers – you know, giving each other pandas and horses and handing out contracts to each other's sons. I think he assumed you were Jonathan's mistress. Anyway, he promised to look into it.'
'Another political promise?'
'The wine will be with you by the end of the week.'
He turned towards the door.
'Why, Tom? Why are you so angry?'
'Angry?' He paused to consider. I'm angry because I can't help wondering whether you slept with him. I ought to be above that, but I'm not. And I'm angry because you think it's none of my business. But most of all I'm angry because I think I shall miss you so very much.'
'I'll see you,' she whispered.
Did she mean it, or were they simply words to fill an awkward space?
He didn't reply.
His hand was on the doorknob.
'And a pox on Paris.'
– =OO=OOO=OO-= They were sitting on the Terrace of the House of Commons, enjoying the sun while they ate, watching the Millennium Wheel revolve slowly against the sky. The tables around them were crowded, filled with the frenzied buzz of speculation and rumour that accompanies the installation of any new Prime Minister.
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