Mind Games and Ministers

by Chris Longden

  I cleared my throat. Trying to find the right words to say and holding my hand over my eyes, as if blinded by the sun. Lower thine eyes.

  “No, Michael. It’s just that … I made a sort of promise to myself. That I wouldn’t get involved with anyone else. For a good few years. I have to think about the children. I can’t do this. Do you know what I mean?”

  He nodded, gently.

  “Of course I do. So again. Please forgive me for jumping the gun there. It’s just that I … . Well. I’m clearly attracted to you. I fancy you, of course. And I can only apologise if…”

  I moved my hand away from my eyes and pressed a finger to his lips.

  “You might be Mr Big Shot Politician, but you’re rather gullible, aren’t you?”

  “What?” He frowned.

  “That was a joke. Can’t you tell?”

  “No …” he paused. “So …”

  I took my finger away from his lips and kissed him, then told him.

  “I was being sarcastic …”

  “Oh. Yes. That sarcasm thing of yours.” He kissed me back. Tongue and teeth now. But then it was his turn to break away from me.

  “Seriously though. Hang on. You did say earlier that you often had concerns about how other people perceived you. Whether you were going about things properly. Being widowed. The right way to do things.”

  “That’s right,” I said, clasping my fingers around his, “but I don’t see anyone here that I need to gain the approval of. Do you? Is Trevor going to have a perv through the bay windows and grass me up to my mum?”

  “No …”

  “Fine. Come on, then.” This time it was me pulling him up from the sofa. “I thought you were eager to find me a bed to sleep in, Michael…”

  Chapter 8

  POST-HIMERUS, AND BATHTIME

  He found me a bed. It was a little bit more luxurious than my usual horizontal hang-out. Goose-feather pillows. Expensive-looking sheets. No mushed-up lumps of play-doh stuck to the end of the bedpost (“ It’s a baddie alien, Mummy! ”) No empty snail shells from the garden under the pillow. No pink milkshake stains or stray Rice Krispies adorning the duvet cover. And even stranger (even better), it contained a very adult presence and that musky scent of herbs, smoke and Ralgex.

  A watery sun spliced through the slats of the window blinds, striping itself across the bed. I caught the sound of church bells drifting down the valley from the Roman Catholic church. Early morning communion for the hardcore.

  Michael turned over, and nudged my earlobe with his nose.

  “Poor lamb – were you chilly? I see you managed to get the T-shirt back on.”

  “A little,” I fibbed. I might be good for taking the lead in terms of bed choice and boudoir antics, but I had never been one for baring all. A long pause, and then Michael began to snooze against my neck again. The occasional half-snore.

  I touched his hair, combing it lightly with my fingers. A full head of the stuff, despite the stress of his job. Reddish brown, shot through with silver strands. I watched his chest rise and fall. But the moment of intimacy evaporated as I realised that I had been sectioning his hair with my fingertips, in the same way that I always did with the kids when embarking upon the Great Nit Hunt. I was trying – but failing – to swallow the bubbles of laughter when I was saved by the sound of the fish door knocker.

  Michael started, awake. Propped himself up on one arm and coughed.

  “Who the hell can that be? It’s Sunday morning, for God’s sake. What time is it, anyway?” I looked over at the bedside clock; a rather grand brass affair. More antique than Argos.

  “Seven thirty,” he groaned, rolled over and plonked a kiss on the top of my exposed thigh. “Christ, my back aches like hell. I need some more Ralgex on it. You and your drowning old ladies…”

  Naked, he padded to the door, grabbed a dressing gown from the back of a chair and made his way down the stairs. Another rap. The bedroom was directly above the front door, the window was open and I could hear a peculiar pinging sound. Accompanied by a squeaky voice.

  “Hey! Pack it in, you daft twat!” Ping!

  A short screech as Michael pulled back the bolts on the front door.

  “Oh. Hello. What are you two doing here?” Ping!

  I recognised Tia’s voice now.

  “Er, well. We called round yesterday when we realised he’d left his phone.” Ping!

  Now Tyler: “But you weren’t in.” Ping!

  “An’ it cost over eighty quid, it did, and us mum’ll friggin’ kill us if it’s lost.”

  “Right,” said Michael. Trying to collect his thoughts. Ping!

  Tyler’s voice again. “So can you just go an’ ask ’er for it?” Ping!

  Then a different male voice. Very bass. Hint of a West Indies accent.

  “Oi! Stop throwing the gravel about, all right?”

  Then Michael. “It’s all right, Trevor. I know them.” His voice was now directed at the twins. “But he’s right. It’s not only annoying, but you might hit my bike. Or a window.” Tyler sniggered, lowering his voice to a growl.

  “Down, Boy! Good Trevor.” Tia erupted into giggles.

  I heard Tyler again.

  “Your bike’s cool, though. Triumphs are well lush. You’re mad not puttin’ it in the garage. You’ll ’ave it nicked. Us dad used to ’ave a bike before us mum banned it. An’ then ’e left.” A flatness in his voice. “’Cause she bans everything what’s dead good.”

  “You’re right,” replied Michael. “I do normally lock it up in the garage, but I’m afraid that I forgot to last night.”

  “Well. You’d ’ave been a bit busy wouldn’t you, eh?” From Tyler. A snort from his sister.

  “So.” Michael again. Trying to change the subject. “Your phone.”

  “We know she’s ’ere,” Tyler told him. “’Cause ’er crap car’s over there.”

  There was a slight pause in the conversation. Then Michael responded.

  “What makes you think that that isn’t my car?”

  “Because,” from Tia now, “Trevor-Built-Like-A-Brick-Shithouse and your other bodyguard whatsitmen are always sat in a Merc. We always see you in it.”

  “Yeah,” Tyler continued, “and anyway. We’ve seen the other car what you’ve got in your garage. The black Toyota Prius. I can’t see you and your ’ard men heavvies going, ‘Oooh, yeah, we’ll have a Merc and a Prius and a Triumph and, like, for us fourth shit-hot ride we’ll go for a banana-yellow Fiat Panda. What goes about as fast as an ’airdryer.”

  I stuffed the eiderdown in my mouth, trying to smother the laughter.

  “That’s quite an unfair assumption to be making,” replied Michael. “Fiat Pandas are highly regarded for their eco-credentials.”

  “Eco-crewhat?” asked Tia.

  “Anyways,” her brother countered, “we know it’s hers ’cause there was a pair of Disney Princess knickers on the parcel shelf. Unless they were yours.” They dissolved into fits of giggles again.

  Michael decided it was time to get stern.

  “Well, the owner of any vehicle parked on these premises is actually none of your business. Now. I’ll go and get your mobile. Wait here.”

  I heard him close the front door, then a creak or two as he climbed the cottage stairs. He jogged over to me and flung himself onto the bed.

  “Did you hear that?” he whispered. “They’re smart little devils, aren’t they?”

  “Yes,” I replied. “And you were even cleverer to not actually lie to them about anything. And blinding them with your pompous grown-up speak.”

  “I know!” he beamed. “I’m glad you noticed! That’s the prerogative of a politician, of course. So, where is the bloody mobile? Please tell me that you’ve still got it.”

  “On the sink, in the outside bathroom. Don’t worry. I checked yesterday. There were no photos of you on Tyler’s phone.,” I whispered back. He kissed me hard on the mouth, and rubbed the top of my thigh. “I’ll be back and seeing to yo
u – very shortly …”

  A minute or so later I heard him at the front door.

  “Here. Mind how you go. Oh. But, hang on.” There was a pause, and then Michael continued.

  “Here you go. Ten pounds. For helping Mr Bridges and Miss Simpson out yesterday. ‘back at ya’ and all that.”

  Tyler’s response was immediate and to the point.

  “So, shouldn’t that, like, be a tenner each? ’Cause I mean … you goin’ off with me mobile caused me a right load of aggro.”

  A ‘Sheesh’ from Michael. Then, “Wicked. Ta,” from Tia. I heard the click of the gate.

  “Bye!” they shouted back at Michael. Then “Bye, Trevor, boy!” followed by a bark and a growl. And finally, Tyler hollering, “Bye to you, too, Miss Whats-yer-name. His bird upstairs. Enjoy yer shaggin’ with ’im!”

  Michael came back up the stairs and into the room, shaking his head. “Bloody disgraceful. They got twenty quid out of me in the end. I hate kids!”

  “Well,” I replied, “you told no lies. They told no lies. You should be impressed with their performance.”

  He jettisoned the dressing gown, crawled back onto the bed and began to kiss my neck.

  “Never mind their performance; I’m more concerned with mine. I have to go to London now. And you being so irresistible … you’re turning this into a very hard experience for me.”

  “Hey, Michael.” His lips were on my shoulder blade now but I nudged him off and started to snigger. “Was that your new gangsta speak? That ‘back at ya’? Is that the influence of Vinnie, your new best mate?”

  “Oh, be quiet, you,” he mumbled, tearing at my T-shirt. “We haven’t got long left. I’ve got a train to catch. I’ve got that appointment with the prime minister this afternoon.”

  “Well, maybe you can remind him about those training sessions for Cabinet members, to improve your collective and individual senses of humour. And while you’re at it, you might want to request a course on how to speak to your average twelve-year-old child.”

  “Shut up, smart-arse. Come here.” I scuttled off the bed and towards the bathroom.

  “Actually, I’ve got an idea, Michael. Let’s multi-task. Do some effective time management. Have that shared shower you mentioned yesterday, after all.”

  An hour later and it was Michael’s turn to take charge. “Destination Manchester city centre. Drive me to Piccadilly station,” he told me. “Trevor will tail us. It’ll buy me a bit more time with you.” We left the cottage in a last-minute mild panic. Michael looked damp and crumpled, but respectable enough in a short-sleeved shirt and trousers.

  He squeezed himself into the front seat of my car and peered through dust-encrusted windscreen and up at the sky, commenting, “I really thought that we were due a thunderstorm after all this humidity.” The azure blue of the last few days had vanished, and only grey, muggy cloud lay ahead of us on the Hyde Road.

  Even before we set off, I was mentally chastising myself for the state of the car. By the time we had reached Godley, Michael had discovered that a fluff-encrusted lollipop had stuck itself to his laptop bag. I was mortified.

  “God, I’m so sorry! Bloody lollipops. They’re great bribes, but when Matthew gets to the last bit, he either presses the sticks onto the window – as you can see – or if he’s in a bad mood, he lobs them at me from the back seat.” Michael shushed me.

  “Stop apologising for your way of life. I’ve always liked dirty women.”

  “Good thing, too. Because right now, I’m feeling like a right old scrubber. Wearing another set of your cast-offs today. And I can’t believe that you’ve lent me a Man United top. If my dad could see me in this, he’d be doing his nut!”

  “But I thought you were from Manchester?”

  “Precisely. True Mankys support Man City. My dad reckons that it’s only the wealthy suburban sorts who aren’t the real Manks – along with the posh people from down south who follow Man United.”

  “That’s not what I’ve heard. Anyway, your violent prejudices against the Reds don’t bother me. I’m a rugby man, myself and consequently, I don’t have much time for the girly-game. Although in my line of work I do have to pretend to admire football. In fact, that very shirt you’re wearing was actually a gift from the Manchester United chairman, Sir … oh, I can’t remember the chap’s name now …”

  That made it even worse. Still, maybe I would never see Michael again and my dad could use it to dress the Guy Fawkes in. And we could get the kids to chuck it on a Stalybridge bonfire in a few weeks’ time.

  We were speeding through Hyde now and on to Denton, out of the semi-rural area and into the urban sprawl of Manchester proper.

  “I think I’m going a bit too fast …” I fretted.

  “Not to worry. If the bobbies give us any more trouble, Trevor can fish his blues and twos out. He likes to show off.”

  “So, this special protection malarkey. Which organisation decides who’s the best person to protect you? I would have thought that your security blokes, the assassin-spotting experts, would have been your army sorts.”

  “Well, it’s all semantics, really. MI5 assesses the initial risk and then the police and the military decide what kind of specialism is needed for each ministerial portfolio.”

  I glanced at the dashboard clock. “But I still don’t understand why you’re going by train. I thought ministers who get allocated government cars get driven to and from London.”

  “Sometimes. Depends on cost, constituency location, carbon footprint, whether there is an emergency, et cetera. Usually I go to London by train from Manchester. So once we get to the station, Trevor will abandon the car and one of his cronies will collect it and take it back to the fleet. Trevor will get the train and keep an eye on me. Then we pick up the next car at Euston.”

  We were zooming past the red-bricked terraces of inner-city Manchester now. The Sunday morning leftovers – the pizza boxes, kebab wrappers – tumbled along in the wind, pausing only to get stuck in the odd pile of Saturday-night vomit. A mangy brown moggy suddenly decided to play hara-kiri, dashing across the road in front of us. I stamped my foot down.

  “Jee-sus!” Michael declared. “Christ on a bike! Good braking, girl!”

  “Less of the blasphemy, please, Michael. I thought you were a devout Catholic boy.” We had stopped at the traffic lights at Belle Vue. He pretended to mop his brow.

  “Needs must.” He looked over his shoulder at the Merc behind us. “Trevor’s a sharp one. Good reflexes. Most people would have hit you, there. But anyway, I’m half-Jewish so I’m allowed to take the name of your so-called Messiah in vain.”

  “Really?” I inadvertently stalled the car.

  He burst out laughing. “Didn’t you notice my Jewish attributes last night?” he glanced over at me, grinning.

  “Well, yes. I did. But it didn’t seem polite to comment at the time.” I started the car again and held my hand up to apologise to Trevor behind us. Sorry, Trev-Boy.

  “My mother is Jewish. So according to Jewish law, I’m regarded as being fully Jewish. My father was Roman Catholic. There was a bit of a hoo-ha initially. But his parents got over it. Displaying prejudice against Jewish people wasn’t exactly in accordance with their socialist principles and they were big chums from way back when, with Harold Wilson and his family, so they didn’t want to appear to be hypocritical. Meaning that when I put in my appearance on planet earth, my mother’s family got their own way and I got circumcised. And then, later on, Dad’s family got their own way and I headed off for an Ampleforth education.”

  “Right. So didn’t you get any hassle at school? Did no one hold you to be personally responsible for killing off our Lord and Saviour?”

  “Ha, no. Nothing like that. They were all perfectly accommodating of the token Jew-boy. Although being far too exposed to religion at school does seem to have put me off it for life. Having said that, though, yesterday, when Vinnie mistook me for a man of God … it’s been making me think long
and hard about changing career direction. Perhaps I have a new calling.”

  “I can imagine. So next time you’re at some state funeral or asked to do Songs Of Praise , I bet you’ll be trotting out the God-speak with the rest of them. Anyway. You’ve got twelve minutes until your train. Go on!”

  I had driven as close to the station as I could, stopping the car. He grabbed his bag and took two House of Commons embossed business cards and two pens out of its side pocket. Thrusting a pen and a card at me, he said, “Your number”.

  I scribbled it down and he did the same, adding a number to his card. We swapped miniature cardboard rectangles.

  “That’s my personal mobile phone number, so you can get past the staff. I have to juggle a work and a personal number. But watch it, though. I can’t guarantee that Big Brother or some dodgy journo isn’t listening in, no matter what Leveson and the other deluded sorts tried to do.”

  I nodded. He leant over to kiss me. It lingered. We lingered. But I broke away and gripped the steering wheel with one hand.

  “Michael, look. You shouldn’t feel under any obligation to stay in touch. We had a great time. But we’re both adults, so I don't expect …”

  He frowned, pushed a strand of hair back from my eye, tucking it behind my ear.

  “Hey. None of that. Look …” His eyes flicked to the car park outside. “Trevor’s already abandoned the Merc. He’ll be here any second. But listen, Rachael. I don’t do this kind of thing lightly. Of course I’ll be seeing you again.”

  He noticed my silence and added, “That is … if you want to carry on with ...”

  “Nice to be asked,” I said, frostily. Still clenching the steering wheel. He looked at me, uncertain. I felt the corners of my mouth twitch. He grinned.

  “Christ, I never know whether you’re teasing me or being sarcastic. Now, come here!”

  One more hard kiss on the mouth, and then he squeezed himself out of my car.

  As I turned back onto the Hyde Road, there was an ominous rumble of thunder. Seconds later I glimpsed a flash of light from the city, behind me. Small spit-spots of rain began to plink onto my grimy windscreen.