Mind Games and Ministers

by Chris Longden

  (Hmm. Not really, Michael. We didn’t even have the space for a rabbit hutch in our back yard in Stalybridge, never mind a pony. And unless you count the annual summer trip to the Dogs at Belle Vue as ‘showjumping’ …)

  “No. I don’t think that it’s an easy thing for any child to express. And if you’re a boy … perhaps even tougher.”

  He rose from his chair and stretched. A move that exposed his stomach – zigzagged with golden hair. I quickly cast my glance away.

  Grief and lust. Sometimes the opposite sides of the same coin.

  The light was waning now and there was a soft, heavy feel to the evening. Perhaps a thunderstorm brewing. Nature’s way of dealing with too much humidity.

  “Now,” he said, “I suppose that this is the last thing I should be doing if I want to make it to fifty. Got three years to go, in case you were wondering.” His words baffled me until I saw that he had drawn out a packet of cigarettes from his pocket, along with a lighter.

  I had forgotten all about the Michael and Vinnie ciggie-moment. At the time I had even wondered if it had just been a Michael-ruse, a trick to loosen Vinnie up. Get him to feel the smoker’s bond with the Very Reverend Michael Chiswick.

  “Want one?” he asked me, offering the pack as he sat down next to me on the wooden bench.

  “I’ll have a drag,” I conceded, telling him that I hadn’t had a ciggie since a certain pregnancy test over eight years ago. But I ended up spluttering and wincing as the smoke hit the back of my throat and burned my lungs.

  “Silly idea,” I wheezed.

  “Ah, well. Reckless Rachael, eh?”

  There was a natural pause in our conversation as Michael inhaled, then exhaled. I sniffed at the air, the scent of lavender and herbs mingling in with the smoke. Musky stuff. Sexy stuff. Just add a whiff of Marmite and I would have thrown even more caution to the wind. I’m strange like that.

  “I had a good time this afternoon,” he suddenly announced, tipping his head to one side. “I suppose I shouldn’t say that. You’ll end up reiterating that I’m some kind of cheap voyeur.”

  “Nah,” I smiled. “You probably just enjoyed the front-line buzz. You get it with any job where you come face to face with members of the public who live lives

  policy. Push a bill through and all that. But … oh. I don’t know what I’m saying. I’m rambling on now” He took a drag on his cigarette and then continued.

  “OK. Example. These local people’s forums we’ve been rolling out to every local authority area … the idea is for us to get poorer communities more effectively involved in local decision-making. And I hate to sound patronising, but … can you imagine the likes of Dawn and Vinnie embarking on a family outing to their local people’s forum? Expressing their views in a rational and coherent way?”

  “Yes. You do sound patronising.”

  “Apologies. Would it help instead, if I suggested that the government laid out a nice spread of KFC and cheap ciggies and booze in order to ensure that they turned up?”

  “No. That would make you sound even more detached and pompous. And it would remind me why I decided to jump ship from doing any work for Whitehall. But anyway … excuse me for a minute. I do need to call a taxi.”

  No signal on my phone, though. Dratted Peak District and its hills.

  “Oh, yes. Now you’ve reminded me what I wanted to ask you more about. Your Whitehall stuff. Before you ended up doing your local thing with the women’s centre. Tell me how all that came about.”

  I switched my phone off. And then on again. Nothing. I sighed.

  “Well, as you know, I started off as a housing officer on some of the toughest estates in Manchester. Then I moved into policy and more senior management stuff. I ended up specialising in anti-social behaviour and getting asked to represent northern social-housing issues for various Whitehall committees. So I was doing the Leeds to London shuffle at least once a week.”

  “You play it down, Rachael. You’ve got to be pretty good to be asked to sit on one of those committees.”

  “Yeah, right. They’ll draft anyone in if they’re from the regions. Whitehall likes to feel that it’s got its clog-dancing and Lancashire hot-pot contingent fairly represented. But after having Lydia and having had six months away from commenting on inspection regimes and the like … well. I just couldn’t face going back to it.”

  “So, becoming a mother helped you to see things differently?”

  “Oh, no. Not in the way that you might be thinking,” I corrected him. “None of that ‘Now that I’m a mother everything else has fallen into perspective’ crap.”

  (God, Rachael, don’t get too honest about your disregard for traditional maternal-instincts here.)

  “No. I definitely didn’t want to be hanging out at mums’ and toddlers’ groups, chatting about organic biscuits and sleep patterns. But I also didn’t want to be spending time with civil service fast-track graduate recruits who were more interested in their next dinner party in Islington than really improving the lives of ordinary people. So when I saw the job managing Sisters’ Space … it made perfect sense.”

  A gentle question from Michael, “And I imagine after losing Adam … you felt that you’d made the right choice after all?”

  “Yes. Ironically. At first, Adam wasn’t best pleased about me going back to the front line. Managing a women’s centre. It meant a drop in income for us. I’d been the main breadwinner. Adam was self-employed. Did IT consultancy, but the jobs could be irregular.”

  “Right.”

  “But it wasn’t that, so much. Adam didn’t like the danger element. Blokes hanging around Sisters’ Space. Wanting to beat women up. Not something that I used to encounter very often at conferences in London, that’s for sure.”

  “But he was OK with the job change in the end?”

  “Oh, yeah. He saw how much happier I was. Much less of a ratty cow.”

  I shook my phone again. Nothing.

  “And you can’t argue with that. So now, of course, it means that I can be back home for the kids at a reasonable hour. Not stuck in London, doing overnighters.”

  “Well. It sounds like you made a sensible change, work-wise. For that particular time in your life.” Michael looked up at the darkening sky. “Perhaps we should go inside. It’s getting chillier.”

  The bottle of wine was empty now, but we took our half-full glasses with us, moving through the kitchen and into the lounge. A dapper little room, with an obviously expensive but tired-looking leather sofa, armchairs and two enormous bookcases that seemed to be groaning under the weight of reading material. (“All for show, of course.”) There was an antique grandfather clock and the walls were adorned with paintings – seascapes and landscapes. I nestled myself into the sofa.

  Michael sat in one of the armchairs, leg thrown over the armrest. It amused me to see him so casual, so at ease in his own home. He jiggled his leg and looked slightly puzzled.

  “But don’t you ever think, Rachael, seeing as though you care so much about injustice in society —”

  “Ah, you were ruder before. You said that I was ‘opinionated’.”

  “Whatever. Don’t you think that you could really make a difference on a larger scale? I do think people like you should be leading, rather than making up the ranks.”

  “Oh, Michael. Didn’t you listen to me just now? Career ladders. Not me! And just listen to your military imagery … that was such a politician sort of thing to come out with.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “But I am a politician! I don’t know any other way to be! I’m programmed to grill people like this. Anyway,” he held his hands up in surrender, “I take it that this means you won’t be looking into the job that this Shaun character wanted to talk to you about?”

  “I’m sorry?” Not sure if I had heard him correctly. And did his voice have a slight edge to it? His body language was oh-so-casual now, though. Stretching his arms above his head, I heard a bone crack and then he reached into his pocket f
or his own phone.

  “Would you just look at this? The damned battery has died again. Time for a new model, I think. I’m sure the Cabinet Office can afford it.”

  “That reminds me. I really should order a taxi.”

  He reached over to a cupboard drawer, yanked out a phone charger and then knelt on the floor to plug it in, saying over his shoulder, “Look, I’m sorry if that sounded a bit … intrusive. It’s just that this Shaun bloke ... his name seemed to come up quite a lot today. And every time it did, you sort of … flinched. Made me wonder. That’s all. I notice people. It’s part of my training. My vocation, if you like.”

  Try to change the subject, Rachael.

  “Would that be your training for the priesthood? I mean, I still can’t believe that Vinnie ended up thinking that you were that sort of a minister … not the brightest spark, was he?”

  Leaving the phone plugged into the charger, he stepped over to the sofa and sat down next to me. It was a two-seater. He folded his hands in his lap and looked downwards. Smiling to himself with fake humility.

  “Well. What can I say? Some of us are born to look innocent and devout. Spiritual, mystical qualities, et cetera …”

  And then he moved his hand to rest on my left wrist. His forefinger stroked my forearm. Upwards. I stared at the grandfather clock opposite us.

  Tick.

  Stroking it downwards.

  Tock.

  “Rachael?”

  “What?”

  “You’ve got goose bumps. And it’s not cold. In fact, it’s still very warm in this room.”

  “I know. I’ve got Raynaud’s disease. It’s this blood-circulation thing, where you feel the cold more than your average person. But it’s not really a disease. In fact, I don’t know why they call it a disease, because you can’t catch it and it makes me feel a bit like a leper when I …”

  That talking-too-much-when-nervous thing. Again.

  Pulling me gently towards him.

  “You’re a very strange lady.”

  “Well. You’re a crap vicar.”

  His head dipped slightly and he moved his hand to my neck. Then, resting the palm of his hand on my hair, he pulled my mouth to his. He tasted warm, spicy.

  Our kisses became deeper. Juicier.

  Kissing someone for the first time.

  Kissing someone for the last time.

  We both moved now. Bodies clumsily trying to fit together more easily on the small sofa. Michael elbowed a cushion off and wrapped his other arm around my waist. Under my T-shirt. Stroking my bare, braless back. His stubble grinding into my chin.

  And then the phone rang. Not mine. It sounded more like a landline phone in one of the other rooms.

  I came up for air.

  “Shouldn’t you get that, Michael?”

  (Purdah Calling Rachael?)

  “Mmm. Perhaps.” Eyelashes tinged with dark auburn. Looking down at my mouth. Moving in to touch my lips with his again.

  “Shit!” He moved back suddenly. His face flicked away from mine. “Sorry! Yes! The landline!”

  It continued to ring. As Michael seized the phone in the next room, my own mobile buzzed. A signal at last.

  My mother had sent me a bizarrely constructed text message.

  “Tried 2 fone Yur owse. But yur not In. Ope yur havin gud tyme aneewy. Kidz gud but Mat had dodgy tum & had acident so Grndad cros as poo al over conservetri..si yu tumrw.xmamx”

  Michael’s voice drifted along the corridor. He sounded agitated, but I could only hear the odd phrase.

  “No – absolutely nothing to get … Oh, course … minimal risk … Yes … But these things happen …”

  I gave up trying to listen and scrolled through some recent photographs I had taken. Quite a few were from Sisters’ Space, of the women engaged in business-planning sessions for our new cafe and shop. But whether the photos were of women-at-flipchart, women-learning-latte-art or women-in-chocolate-workshops, every one of them had been ruined by Dee – one of our more abrasive characters at the centre – pulling what she liked to call her ‘spazzer face’. I turned to my family photos instead. Rather too many with Matthew biting things. Hopefully he would grow out of that soon. And then Lydia with her pet stick insect Arthur, sitting on her forehead.

  I felt sorry for Michael and his claim not to like small children. They might ruin your life in many ways, but at least things were never dull around them.

  He returned to the room now, rubbing his forehead.

  “Sorry about that,” he said “Work. I switched the volume down on my mobile when we were talking before. And then the battery died. So they had to track me down on the landline instead.”

  I had noticed that when we had arrived back at the cottage – he had barely looked at his phone. I had just assumed that on a Saturday night, he was allowed to have a few hours off. Apparently not.

  “Nothing bad?”

  “Had to speak to a guy called Alex Hewlitt. Chap who leads the Guvnor’s little Politbureau. Political appointment. Spin doctor. Complete twat. Having a pop at me for ‘A near miss today, Michael, my friend …’ He started off with bitching at me about the police and the bike thing on Brindleford. So … hang on. I do just need to double-check …” He moved over to the bay windows overlooking the front garden and peered through them.

  “Good. Trevor’s back.”

  “Trevor?” I asked. (His dog? His cat? A homeless old man outside? An imaginary friend?) He closed the curtains.

  “Security chappie. One of the more annoying parts of my job at this current moment in time. That’s what Alex Hewlitt was getting all arsey about. ‘Where was your protection this afternoon? You can’t afford to take risks.’ As though Alex gives a shit if some random psychopath wants to stab me. It’s the potential for the headlines and the scandal stuff that sends Alex into the hissy fits.”

  “Oh. So this Trevor … should he have been with you?”

  “Well, Number Ten would prefer it that way. But every minister does have an element of choice about protection. And I don’t particularly feel the need for it on a lazy Saturday. So I let Trevor have the afternoon off. He’s from around here himself. And his dad is ill – last stages of cancer and in a hospice in Warrington. So I told Trevor to go and spend a few hours with him. The old fella seemed to be taking a turn for the worse. But Trevor’s back now and in the Merc outside.”

  He picked up his phone.

  “Ah, yes. Here we are. Trevor texted me half an hour ago. ‘Here now. Dad doing better.’ Ha! Ha ha ha!”

  “What? He said ‘Ha!’? About his dad being so ill?”

  “No,” Michael sniggered irreverently. “The laughter was mine. Trevor added something else. ‘Good-looking lass.’ Meaning you. How very northern of him.”

  “Oh. But when would he have seen me?”

  “Well, he’ll have had a nosey around for any bombs that you might have casually squirreled about your Fiat. And him checking out your vehicle would have brought your ID up. Photo…”

  “What? He can access my photo? Is he MI5 or something?”

  “Yes, of course he can. And he can access lots more, too.” He perched next to me on the sofa now, hand on my knee. “And in terms of him profiling you, I think he’ll have you down for a very disturbed person indeed. Driving a vehicle so appallingly littered with underwear and disembowelled toys. But to answer your other question, no. He isn’t MI5. The bodyguard division are called ‘specialist protection’. Those police, army, intelligence sorts – they all overlap. Anyway,” he added, “Are we going to get on to human rights and protection of personal data now?”

  “Nah,” I replied. “Because I’ll no doubt be accused of being opinionated again.”

  He ran his tongue over his teeth. Best not to reply.

  “So wasn’t that a bit of a risk, then? You having a gap with no security being around?”

  He looked nonplussed.

  “Well, there’s rather a lot of talk about heightened security alerts at the mo
ment. Hence me being stuck with overkill on protection. But in terms of Al Qaeda and the like, they’ll hardly want to take out the man in charge of communities. Not when they’ve got your defence minister and the Home Secretary to go after. So personally, I think it’s all rather a waste of public money. Having someone skulking around all the time.”

  I nodded in sympathy. But I didn’t really have a similar point of reference (unless Matthew trailing after me to the toilet trilling, ‘You having a wee or a poo, mummeh? Can I watch?’ was a fair comparison.)

  “But more importantly than the damned bodyguard issue, Alex needed to talk to me about some other stuff going on, on the domestic front. Meaning that I need to pop by and see the prime minister tomorrow afternoon. So, rather inconveniently I’ve got to get the earlier train back tomorrow morning now.”

  He touched my cheek gently, drawing his finger across it. But I moved my face away from him.

  “Right. Well. You’ve got an early start. I might be best using your landline to order that taxi.”

  He folded his arms and looked intently at me.

  “No. Stop talking about taxis, woman! I want you to stay. To stay over here, I mean. No taxi.”

  He put his hand on my upper arm. Trailed the fingers down to mine and then tried to pull me up off the sofa – wanting me to follow him. But I stayed put. Blood a-buzzing through my brain.

  I shook my head. He let go of my hand, and his shoulders slumped as his smile faded.

  “God. I’m sorry. I’m being incredibly selfish.” He plonked himself back onto the sofa again. Hands clasped together, Head down.

  “I’m being an absolute self-centred bastard, aren’t I? I’m so used to … No. No excuses. I’m making gross assumptions, aren’t I? Look. How about you just forget the taxi anyway, and choose a bed. I’ve got two spare rooms and it makes perfect sense.”

  “I can’t.” I shook my head again and began to rub my forehead. (Think carefully.)

  His eyes flicked up at me. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have …”